


Whispers of Aure

by Dean_Wax



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Ballet, Betrayal, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Death, Eating Disorders, Gender Issues, Hand Jobs, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Masturbation, Mentor/Protégé, Mindfuck, Murder, Mystery, Organized Crime, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Psychological Trauma, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Racism, Revenge, Secret Organizations, Slavery, Suicide, Torture, Underage Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-10-03 14:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 57,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17285768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dean_Wax/pseuds/Dean_Wax
Summary: I have given him my life.No, not even that; I was never old enough to decide if I was to give it freely or not. It was taken from me. Without being responsible for my own food, my own clothes, my own shelter, I had no choice but to do as I was told. I devoted my entire being, from demure thoughts of obedience to the blistering skin on my feet to a man whose lungs were as decayed and rotten as his heart. And if he knew what I was thinking he would demand to know why I wasn’t grateful. He has given me everything I ever needed to survive. He has fed me, clothed me, educated me and named me. Without him I would be nothing; I doubt I would even exist.And still, I hate him. I hate him and his horrid butler, both. Why were they so discontent with one another that they even needed to bring me into the picture? Why has my existence come about? What am I for? Am I to fulfill the artistic whims of a lunatic unable to dance himself? Am I a marionette, some kind of doll available for them to vent their displeasure with their lots in life at their leisure?=The journey of a psychopath, from childhood to end.





	1. Aure

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story a long time ago. It was originally posted on AFF as simple 'Aure' but I intended to eventually weave it in with other stories in a project that was much too ambitious and naturally stagnated due to its unmanageable scope. So I've retitled it and figured out a way for the story to stand on its own. It's still not happy.

My name is Aure. I am eleven.

 

Every day I awake when my alarm clock sounds, and my alarm clock sounds at half past five. Six o’clock in winter to adjust for the daylight; my master likes as little electricity as practical running in his household. His tastes are quite Victorian in that regard, though the era has long since passed. Unfortunately, the house must have electrical lighting. Gas lanterns are not an option. The fumes would trigger his respiratory condition.

 

When the trilling bells pull me from sleep I open my eyes, fold back the white sheet on my bed and walk over to my closet and drawers in socked feet. I collect a pair of underwear and a simple, white cotton dress with a collar and buttons. The closet door creaks softly beneath my tiny hand as I shut it and move behind the inornate courtesy screen in one corner of my room to exchange my nightgown for the uniform I wear during the day. Then I sit before the mirror at my dresser and watch the shadows under my eyes as I brush my platinum hair and tie it back in an austere braid.

 

I should clarify. I am a boy. But I do as I’m told.

 

There is very little feminine presence in my master’s household. The maids are instructed not to speak unless spoken to, and they move through the house with a skittish urgency that makes them rarely seen during my daily routine. The rest of the staff, in its meagre entirety, is male. It was only last year due to an unfortunate incident that I left the grounds of my master’s estate and was exposed for the very first time to this strange, chatty gender with their swollen chests and painted lips. The bouillabaisse was to blame.

 

The only meal I take in my master’s presence is a formal sitting at dinnertime. At all other times I eat in the kitchen at the cook’s table. But at dinner, I am expected to eat the same fare that my master does, and he has a penchant for French cuisine. Indeed that is why I have a French name, though secretly I mispronounce it in my head. I butcher it down to a single syllable. Like the word ‘oar’.

 

One evening last year, the dish was bouillabaisse. I ate it without question, of course; but we all swiftly discovered that I am severely allergic to shellfish.

 

My master’s estate is a long way from the nearest hospital. I almost died. When I asked the nurse what had happened to me, she gingerly explained that the term for it was anaphylactic shock. Pressed further, she said the shellfish had caused a reaction that made the tissues lining my throat inflamed and producing copious amounts of fluid that trickled down into my lungs and stopped me breathing. Matters of human biology had been grossly absent from my education, and during my overnight stay, any medical professional left alone in the ward with me was subject to strings of biological queries.

 

The nurses and doctors were all very impressed that I grasped medical explanations so swiftly. They said I was very advanced for my age. As far as I had known previously, I had made only adequate progress in my master’s classroom. I had taken lessons there for as long as I could remember. This had seemed normal. I had simply expected that in amidst all the vocabulary and arithmetic, history and moral lessons; my master would include all subjects necessary for a complete set of knowledge.

 

I left the hospital with the nagging suspicion that something was amiss with my education. That said, I was not foolish enough to ever ask about it. I am a reserved and cautious child. I have been taught that quietness is a virtue.

 

I finish braiding my hair and slip my feet into a pair of brown leather shoes with one buckled strap. I leave my room and walk down the hall. White; all the walls are bleached a stark white. The white tiles in the bathroom catch the morning light and reflect in a way that becomes almost blinding. I always have to squint when I wash my face and hands before breakfast. Then I go down the old mahogany stairs in the main foyer, around to the service hallway and into the kitchen.

 

“Hello, Cook.”

 

I receive a haggard, warbled growl as a response. The cook in my master’s employ is a ghoul of man; a tall, shambling spectre with half of his face marred by scars. I think he may have been injured in a war. He is missing half of his tongue and cannot speak. This may be why my master prefers him. I prefer him, too. The cook has been present for as long as I can remember, and I am well accustomed to his appearance and mannerisms. When I sit at the table he briefly stops tending to a bubbling pot and brings over a tray bearing a small bowl of oatmeal, apple slices, and a glass of milk. He sets it before me, and I begin to eat silently while he returns to his work.

 

I have a strictly regimented diet. Even when I eat dinner at my master’s table, the portions are small and I am expected to refuse dessert without fail. In fact, the last time I responded with anything but borderline repulsion at the notion of dessert, I was subjected to a grating lecture about the importance of maintaining my weight. There is a reason for this.

 

I finish my food in its entirety, drink half of my milk and then carefully rise and make for the door. A gnarled hand stops me gently but immediately on the shoulder and I tense as though I’ve heard a harshly scraped violin string.

 

The soft, low rattle of air in the cook’s throat sounds tender to my trained ears. He points to the table, and I stare back at the milk remaining in my glass. He is right. I should drink it. Beneath my dress my ribs are pronounced under my pale skin, and calcium is good for the bones. But it tastes so creamy I cannot help but feel a strange sort of dread whenever it slides down my throat.

 

The rattle changes pitch and the cook frowns, repeating his pointing gesture and becoming more insistent. With a tremor I press my lips together and move back to the table, not bothering to sit again as I take the glass and drink the rest with a swift, rigid motion. Frowning and fighting nausea, I depart the kitchen quickly without saying goodbye.

 

By the time I return to my room, I feel marginally better. Here is where I will linger until I am summoned to the classroom for my morning lessons. I make good use of my time by retrieving the clothes I will need for this afternoon and folding them into a neat pile at the foot of my bed. I take a sewing kit and box of matches from my desk and meticulously maintain the ribbons on my Bloch pointe shoes. My ballet flats require less regular maintenance.

 

Oh yes; ballet. In the same way that I have known the cook for as long as I can remember, I have danced each and every afternoon. My morning lessons seem trifling by comparison to the level of regimentation and the amount of time my master has devoted to ensuring I learn the art of ballet in a manner to his liking. I began developing pointe work at just six years old. It hurts. You cannot believe the amount of pain that can linger in a body after acts such as pointe work, but I became familiar with the agony. I learned to do as I was told.

 

I hear the tell-tale clip of footsteps in the hallway, and moments later the butler opens my bedroom door after two prim knocks, gazing down at the vision of me kneeling upon the floor, melting the edge of a ribbon above a lit match. The contempt is already clear upon his face. The butler does not like me, and I do not like the butler.

 

“Auré,” he enunciates in a hollow tone, always skilled at keeping his voice separate from his emotions. “Come.”

 

I blow out the match and set my shoes aside, rising from the floor and walking out into the hall. I do not like to speak to him, but as it is neither necessary nor appreciated for me to do so it is rarely a problem. The butler may not like me, but he is obligated to usher me to the classroom each and every day under orders of our master. In fact, I have long since suspected that the only reason he tolerates me is because our master wants me around. As his personal manservant and carer, the butler devotes almost every minute of his life to serving this one man. Judging by his age, I would expect he has done so for many years before I was even born. I think he resents the lessening of attention since I have come into the picture.

 

I think he takes comfort in the fact that our master is too frail to personally dole out any discipline I need. That responsibility is passed on to him, and he relishes it gleefully. I do not like the butler. Every moment of good behaviour on my part cheats him of his happiness, so I strive to live up to all of my master’s expectations. I walk into the classroom and sit down at the only desk set up in the centre. He is already waiting at the front of the room, sitting stoically in his wheelchair. My master.

 

I don’t know his age, but he is old and frail from time as well as his illness, that is for sure. His hair is a well-groomed snowy white, whereas the butler’s is a less ghostly mix of dark and light shade of grey. He wears a suit each and every day, dressed immaculately by the butler’s hands. An old tome sits on his lap. There is no chalkboard in the classroom. With the maids working continuously to keep dust from irritating my master’s sensitive lungs, the have something like a chalkboard would be lunacy. I am taught by dictation.

 

The cook is the only soul I address freely. With all other beings in this household, I do not speak unless spoken to.

 

“Good morning, Auré.”

 

“Good morning, master.”

 

I have never heard any names uttered in this household except my own. Even the butler only knows the man before me as ‘master’. He stands dutifully by the door of the classroom, waiting for the moment our master may require assistance. But all daily lessons begin the same way; with recitation. Wrinkled hands open the leather cover to the first few pages, yellowed and handwritten with an antique fountain pen. He adjusts the spectacles upon his thin nose and reads down the page a moment. The review is merely a part of ceremony. There are only three rules to recite, and we both have them memorised.

 

“Obedience and devotion are the two most important virtues,” he begins. His voice is raspy and quiet, but in the silence of the classroom it is always easy to hear.

 

“Obedience and devotion are the two most important virtues,” I reply in kind, being careful to speak clearly. Muttering or being sloppy with speech is unacceptable.

 

“Loudness is ugliness,” he continues.

 

This is how I have learned that quietness is a virtue. This is how I have learned that speaking without being spoken to can often lead to peril. 

 

“Loudness is ugliness.”

 

“That which is ugly or not virtuous does not deserve to be seen.”

 

There have been days where I have been so plagued with guilt that my repetition of this line was the stammer of a mouse. But not today; today I am filled with serenity, the reassurance that I am obedient. I am virtuous.

 

“That which is ugly or not virtuous does not deserve to be seen.”

 

From behind me I hear the faint rustle of cloth as the butler primly adjusts his white gloves. It makes me smile faintly. The following three hours are filled with mathematics, word definitions and historical readings that are not terribly crucial to my story. When it is over, I am sent to my room to collect my hat, and then expected to go outside and stay there for the next hour. While my master can rarely tolerate the pollen and other irritant risks of the outdoors; I am a growing boy who needs fresh air and sunlight.

 

I really am the only one who ever spends time in the gardens surrounding my master’s manor, but he would never allow it to become overgrown or fall into disrepair. It is tidy and well cared for, by a gardener who lives in a shed at the edge of the estate. I rarely go that far from the house, but I am forbidden to disturb him just as I am forbidden to leave the grounds. I would be punished severely if I did either of those things. Usually I just walk along the cobblestones and take in the outside air, free of the scent of antiques, paper and cleaning products. Aside from trees and a well-kept lawn, the garden consists of white roses. I can’t help but yearn for a little more colour, sometimes. I have seen plenty of horticultural illustrations in some of the books on the shelves in the classroom. Yet, I found no books on human biology. I had been searching in secret whenever possible in the months following my visit to the hospital. I have since given up in dismay.

 

When the sun is at its highest point in the sky I return to the kitchen to take my second meal for the day. I sit down wordlessly, still somewhat burned from the incident this morning. The cook seems unaffected, but I notice that beside my sliced vegetables and lean cut of salmon there is a glass of water instead of the usual milk prescribed to help my bones remain strong. I accept this apology wordlessly and eat the entirety of my lunch without fussing.

 

“Goodbye, cook.”

 

This time, when I leave, I am followed by the soft sound of a warbled approval drifting out of the kitchen door and down the service hall. It makes me feel happy. It doesn’t make me smile; it’s not the same sort of happiness as when I cheat the butler. It is simply a certain kind of peacefulness. I let my mind swim in it as I scale the stairs and change into my leotard, wrap skirt and bolero. I slip my feet into black ballet flats and gather up the white satin Blochs into my arms. I take them with me down the hall to the room next to the classroom. It is much larger, well-lit by a large window and one wall entirely dominated by a mirror and set with a horizontal bar.

 

In one corner of the room there is a grand piano, by the wall opposite there is a lone chair with a black violin case sitting on it. I am by myself, and I set down the Blochs by the wall for when I am instructed to change into them and begin to stretch as I am expected to. As I am attempting to reach forward to my toes whilst doing the splits, the butler wheels my master into the room. I do not acknowledge them in the slightest. My master is a proud man, and I know from experience he does not enjoy spectators as the butler moves the violin case aside and then assists him from the wheelchair into the wooden one. 

 

I look over only as I hear the click of the latch on the violin case being sprung open, and see the butler offering up the violin to my master in the way a Greek servant offers up grapes to an aristocrat in old carvings. He accepts it calmly, showing the violin more tenderness than I have ever seen him show any other object. My master is a talented violinist. With the seemingly effortless way he plays, I can only imagine that he has been perfecting the art for most of his life. 

 

“Good afternoon, Auré,” he mentions idly, checking its tune. I take this as a cue to stand and adopt first position. The butler stands to, moving over to his place at the piano, primly cracking his knuckles before sweeping his coat tails aside and taking a seat. Despite the rigidity of everyone in this house, here in the dance studio it feels fairly normal. This is the room where I feel my most familiar sense of routine.

 

“Good afternoon, master.”

 

“Have you stretched adequately?” he rasps softly, patiently waiting for a response before he expends energy lifting the violin to his shoulder. I answer confidently.

 

“Yes.”

 

His pale eyes slide over to the waiting Blochs and I follow their line of sight, but it is not my place to assume anything about my master’s intentions. I only know that he has a fixation with me working on full pointe.

 

“Change your shoes.”

 

So I do. I wear the Blochs for the entirety of almost every ballet session now. I have gone through so many pairs that I could not even begin to keep count of them. By comparison, my standard flats barely ever need replacing. In fact the last time they did, it was because my feet had just grown larger over time.

 

Both men wait patiently as I sit and calmly tie the ribbons just behind the protruding bones of my ankles. When I return to the centre of the studio, only then does my master lift the weight of the violin to the crook of his neck and take up the bow in thin fingers. 

 

“Today we will work on Chopin’s Nocturne,” he murmurs softly, inclining his head and positioning the bow to begin. With this instruction, I rise up onto my toes and lift my thin, frail arms above my head as if in fifth position. I know all the choreography already. Over the years we have developed many routines. The real work that needs to be done is executing it perfectly; without shaking, without tears. The first time will be easy, but the following repetitions will get harder.

 

The butler begins to play dulcet keys on the piano, but it is only when I hear that first, sweet sound from the violin strings that I begin to move. I become something that I feel quite detached from when I am not dancing, when I am not wearing the shoes. I become weightless as I turn; as I lift my leg so smoothly it is like a steel blade gliding through water. And yet I am not weightless, each muscle must be kept so perfectly tense in such a way to achieve this grace that I am screaming on the inside.

 

Each rapid patter of my toes as I traverse the hardwood and pirouette so sincerely sends a jolt of protest up my shins. Each fleeting moment my heel is allowed to touch the floor only to rise back up again into another arabesque is a cruel, teasing agony. I throw my whole soul into jumps. I sink gratefully into every plié. By the seventh routine it feels as though each twist of the Blochs against the floor is slowly grinding away the skin from my bones. But I dare not let any of it show through me.

 

My face is a mask of velvet and porcelain. This continues for hours. 

 

When my master lowers his violin I collapse weakly on the floor next to my flats, noting with trepidation the small, wet, red and yellow spots on my white cotton socks as I change out of the Blochs. My eyes are wet, and the world blurs slightly. But no tears have rolled down my cheeks.

 

“You are beginning to show some improvement,” my master comments at last, passing the violin back to the butler so it could be returned to its case. “It has taken a long while, but soon we may even begin to work again on the Vivaldi routines.”

 

Nausea grips me as I remember the Vivaldi routines. I should not have been started on those so early, not at all. During those months I was punished so often for crying out or snivelling that I often lost track of the date.

 

“Go wash for dinner. I will expect you in the dining room at seven,” my master continues, not at all phased by my lack of a response. Upon finishing the word ‘seven’ he wheezes into a troubled, hacking cough, and with the butler immediately attempting to help him dislodge the fluid from the wall of his airway I am able to leave the room without an audience to my feeble limping.

 

Each limb complains as I gingerly make my way down the hall, clutching the Blochs to my chest. If all the prima ballerinas in history have been able to earn my master’s adoration, then why haven’t I been able? What has been so wrong on my part that I cannot master the barest minimum that is expected of me? What has been the difference between their progress and my own?

 

I set the shoes heavily on my desk before collecting a small, white leather case kept closed by a single polished button. I take it with me to the bathroom and lock the door, turning on the tap and allowing the water to grow hot as I peel my clothes from my body and discard them into the hamper in the corner. It is only then that I take off my blood-stained socks.

 

I hate my feet. They have become gnarled and veined monstrosities under the discipline of ballet and pointe work. Aged far beyond their time, they look so grossly mismatched to the rest of me that I cannot bear to have others see them. It was many years ago that I was taught the proper care for my own feet, and never since have any eyes but my own seen them outside of socks or stockings. 

 

Sitting nude on the cold tiles, I reach over the side of the porcelain tub in the centre of the bathroom and put a wash pail under the stream of the tap. To my right I have a second pail, this one for waste. I carefully pick away the plasters and medical tape that has become frayed and displaced over the course of my lesson and drop the messy pieces into the waste pail. Then I climb over the side of the tub, remain standing and bite back a scream as I tip a pail of hot water over the fresh wounds.

 

Breathing as deeply as possible helps after that part is over. I kneel in the bath tub and fill other pails, periodically tipping them over my head and body as I make short work of cleaning myself for the day with a simple bottle of liquid soap. When I am rinsed enough I sit back on the floor with a large white towel draped over my bony shoulders, still breathing deeply as I cut away any loose skin from the blisters with a small pair of medical scissors. I apply a burning disinfectant that stains the surrounding skin yellow. I bandage and tape each and every single toe. I apply an unscented moisturiser to the cracked, tough skin of my heels and soles. 

 

Then I finish drying, and put on new socks. There is already a fresh set of clothes folded and waiting for me on a lacquered chair in the corner. Back in the merciful support of my buckled school shoes, I am able to walk somewhat normally down to the dining room. I sit there and wait in silence until the butler wheels my master into the room, dressed in a fresh dinner suit. He is placed at the head of the table, and I sit opposite him at the foot of it, about three metres away. Several maids enter with silver plates and set them on the table, and then immediately leave again. The butler remains standing by the door, watching me with cold, raven’s eyes.

 

It was decided several years ago that it would be good practice for me to serve my master his evening meal. Though I took on the responsibility with great trepidation, I soon learned how to correctly serve a plate. The butler certainly didn’t afford me any errors with his initial supervision of my work. Even now as I carefully carve slices of roast beef from the largest platter, I still worry that a gloved hand may strike across my face.

 

I risk a glance as I pick up the small pitcher bearing red wine gravy. He is still standing by the door. I return to serving my master’s meal. When the plate is carefully arranged with slices of beef, braised carrots and a neat scoop of mashed potato, I pick up the plate and walk to the head of the table, eyes lowered.

 

I would like to say what happened next occurred because I had been put through a longer or harsher routine than normal that day. I would like to say it happened because my feet were in more pain than I was accustomed to, or I was unusually week. But the truth is, it happened for no reason at all. My grip simply slipped, and the plate and all of its contents fell to the white carpet beneath our feet and stained it like blood with the gravy.

 

What happened next was even worse. The butler was already swooping down upon me with long, swift strides in his polished shoes but in my terror and surprise I cried out as my elbow was caught by his unforgiving, gloved hand.

 

“No!”

 

The expressions on both of their faces as I looked between them in panic were those of livid outrage. My master was struck dumb by a grimace and one long, continuous wheeze. The protest died in my throat and I gasped as the butler hauled me backwards towards the door. It would be lunacy to struggle now, but the raw sores on my feet screamed as I tried to rapidly keep up with his long strides and I had difficulty staying upright. I had no chance of escape, anyway. Where would I go? My tiny body is so thin and so light that even an old man like the butler has no difficulty sweeping me off my feet and hauling me over his shoulder as he stomps up the stairs.

 

I take hurried, panicked breaths as I watch the doors pass us by, knowing exactly where we are going. Beyond the classroom, past the dance studio, there is one door at the end of the hall that is heavier than all the rest. I know it simply as the room. The butler yanks it open and I catch a glimpse of an unkind, manic sneer upon his face before I am tossed inside and the door is shut. 

 

There is no light. There is no way out. There is nothing in this room except for myself and one small, ventilated pipe leading to the outside air; a small spot on the exterior wall of a manor miles away from civilization. No one will be troubled by the noise I make now, and I scream freely.

 

My name is Aure. With each day my behaviour improves, the leash I am kept on becomes shorter. I am beginning to choke.


	2. That Which is Ugly

That which is ugly or not virtuous does not deserve to be seen.

I have been thinking on this lesson a lot. Not in the way my master would expect me to; no, not at all, I’d wager. The thing that is becoming increasingly dangerous about this room is that it gives me a lot of time to myself to think, for in this prison I have nothing but time and time is nothing. Staring into the black void that surrounds me, there is no way to gauge this thing called time and for all I could possibly know this time I have been left here forever, swept under the rug like an inconvenient spider carcass during the daily cleaning.

This is what has been done to me every time I have disobeyed, or set a foot wrong, or screamed or indeed done anything at all not to my master’s liking. Ever since I was a small child capable of walking on my own, if I ever did something so offensive to my master’s senses I would simply be removed from the entire picture altogether. I would linger here in this silent room until the noises in my head also died out into quiet.

I have all the time in the world, and yet no time at all. Every second passing could be the second the butler returns to release me, but until then I have a lot of thinking to do, indeed. For no man is free from being ugly; no man deserves to be seen. So why is it little Aure who is always punished and not the hacking, beastly, suited souls that also dwell here in the manor? Why is it that the smallest is treated the most severely?

It is certainly not an act of caring. It is not an act of teaching, not any more. I have those three rules so well memorised I see them burned onto my eyelids when I close my eyes to sleep at night and this room has done nothing to change that. In fact, with each and every session I spend in here I find a bitterness and resentment growing in my tiny heart like a black ball of fungus. I stopped screaming and crying long ago, rolling over onto my back on the hard floorboards to stare up at the void and I feel it now, tightening there in the cavity of my chest. With it, the voices don’t stay silent any more. If anything, they just get louder.

I hate the butler the most; his sneering, his severity; his contempt. I hate my master also, for why has he never chastised the butler for his actions? If I am my master’s creation, if I am the object of his fixation, the dancing figure upon whom he spends hours each day gazing, then why has he done nothing to show me mercy, to nurture me? Every mistake I make is not corrected by guidance but instead brutally cut away like a wart.

I have given him my life.

No, not even that; I was never old enough to decide if I was to give it freely or not. It was taken from me. Without being responsible for my own food, my own clothes, my own shelter, I had no choice but to do as I was told. I devoted my entire being, from demure thoughts of obedience to the blistering skin on my feet to a man whose lungs were as decayed and rotten as his heart. And if he knew what I was thinking he would demand to know why I wasn’t grateful. He has given me everything I ever needed to survive. He has fed me, clothed me, educated me and named me. Without him I would be nothing; I doubt I would even exist.

And still, I hate him. I hate him and his horrid butler, both. Why were they so discontent with one another that they even needed to bring me into the picture? Why has my existence come about? What am I for? Am I to fulfill the artistic whims of a lunatic unable to dance himself? Am I a marionette, some kind of doll available for them to vent their displeasure with their lots in life at their leisure?

Ludwig Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Those are the thunderous piano notes I am hearing in my head. What is meant to be a gentle and dulcet accompaniment of keys is taking over the silence in my head. Keys attached to hands, attached to a torso and a face with jealous eyes watching me as he plays.

I would like to break those fingers within their gloves and see the white cotton turn red like so many pairs of my socks. I would like to do a lot of things, but I am not able. I am Aure, too small and too young to bring about any harm to a man of the butler’s size and age.

But, as I breathe softly there in the darkness, closing my eyes and letting the cold air grace upon my tear-streaked cheeks I realise that there is indeed a way to make the butler scream in agony and despair as if the very fingers of his hands were broken into pieces. There is a way to make him weep and lament everything he has ever done. And these thoughts bring me a peace I have never known before, removing the frustration from my heart and even the dull pain from my toes. In that moment, I feel as though I could be on a cloud. Drifting in the abyss becomes a simple game of patiently waiting.

“Auré.”

The hollow screech of the door scraping from its frame jerk me back to a sharper consciousness some time later and I am immediately blinded by the light pouring in from the hallway, filling all available gaps around the butler’s imposing silhouette. After a bout of rapid squinting and blinking in an attempt to adjust to the light I look up and see those cold, black eyes staring down at me above lips curled back to show the teeth. His nose crinkles on one side as he regards me in all my squalor, face streaked with mucus and reddened salty eyes.

“You look disgusting,” he says flatly. “Go clean yourself, and go to bed. There will be no morning lessons. The stress you caused master has burdened him with the need for extra bed rest.”

I show nothing on my face as I rise shakily to my feet. For all the butler can see, my time in the room has once again returned me to the silent, emotionless child that my master desires. He is not allowed to quarrel with that state, even if in his mind I should be guilt-ridden and begging for forgiveness. My master wishes for me to be like this, and he will respect that. Because he loves him. And that is why he hates me.

With the butler’s eyes burning into my back I walk calmly to the bathroom and shut and lock the door. There is already a fresh nightdress folded and waiting for me on the chair. As it is not worth the time to redress my feet, I kneel over the edge of the bathtub to rinse my hair and wipe down the rest of my body with a washcloth. I dry and slip the nightdress over my head, its hem tickling my knees. I walk back to my bedroom, and switch on the light. I sit at my dresser and I brush my hair. I plait it into an austere braid. I leave the room again, my tiny, padded footsteps soundless in the dimly lit hallway.

My master sleeps in the bedroom in the centre of the hallway, opposite the main stairway and the carved chair he is placed in while the butler ferries his wheelchair downstairs before returning to carry him down. His room is only marginally more decorated than my own, but dangling by his bedside is a string with a handle, fed from a bracket that mounts to the wall and leads down, down to a bell in the butler’s bedroom situated directly below my master’s. 

Standing by his bedside in the blue moonlight shining through the gossamer curtains, I stare at it for a long moment before very slowly taking the handle and lifting it up by the slack end of the string, looping the handle over the protruding end of the bracket where it would be out of reach. Only then did I allow my pale gaze to flick over to this powerful, terrifying man, breath hissing softly as he slumbered with dry lips lolling open. His normally gelled and combed hair tousled and thinning.

I have all the time in the world, and yet I have no time, not while that shriveled mouth figuratively sucks upon the essence of my youth. Any second now could be the second the butler walks in the door and discovers me. But I know that he will be downstairs undressing or already sleeping, because he is as obedient and fixated upon routine as he expects me to be; because we share the same master. We have the same lessons and values carved into our beings. We share the same fears, except one.

As I very carefully manoeuvre one shin to be parallel to my master’s withered body, I cannot help but think how beautiful violins sound, or indeed entire orchestras creating exquisite symphonies. My emaciated frame barely makes a dent in the mattress on either side of my master as I grip the bed frame, my entire body as poised as any prima ballerina. I think briefly about using a pillow, but I fear telltale signs of blood or spit will be left on the cotton case. I used my hands instead.

The moment I block his airway those faded, grey eyes snap open in alarm and a snarled hand scrabbled for the handle on a string that is no longer there. He struggles in panic, but the weight of even my small body sitting upon his chest and the rotting lungs within it is now making it very difficult to muster up the strength. My medical knowledge is very limited, but that is what I imagine. His hands grip and claw at my pallid wrists with all the final desperation he can muster, and even that is pathetic. The last thing he sees before his eyes lose focus and roll up into their sockets is my small, moonlit face staring down at him unsmiling but with the brightest of glints in my ghostly blue eyes. 

When I take my hands away his shrivelled lips are tinted a purple-blue hue, but I pay it little mind. I hop off the bed with the utmost stealth and smooth out the bedcovers, returning my master’s arms to a more natural sleeping position. I carefully take the handle on the string and unhook it from the bracket on the wall, dangling once more where it always had been. Then I leave again, returning to the bathroom to wash my face and hands. I pull the flush chain on the toilet once, serene in the knowledge that any footsteps heard would be chalked up to me pissing in the night. I go to bed with a simultaneous calm and exhilaration I have never felt before.

My name is Aure. I have always been very good at being unseen.


	3. Curious

At sunrise, I am awoken by the most ungodly wail I have ever heard in my short life. Wracking sobs creep under the crack below my door from down the hallway, followed by the crashing sound of some piece of furniture being tipped over by a man consumed by frustration and despair. At least, I imagine so.

 

It all makes me bury my face into my pillow and smile so hard that I do not move until my natural instincts force me to come up to breathe.

 

I know I should get up. I am expected to keep to a routine. Beginning the fight to keep the smile from my lips, I pull back the sheet and move to me wardrobe to select a long-sleeved blouse with buttoned cuffs. I need them to hide the bruises on my wrists, and half-moon marks from old fingernails. I tuck the blouse into a grey pinafore skirt and slip my feet into my shoes. The wounds have healed a moderate amount overnight; they always do. But today I feel so self-satisfied I would not have minded either way.

 

When I have brushed and braided my hair neat again, I wash my hands and face in the bathroom and head down to breakfast as if nothing is amiss. I deadpan my face on the stairway, for the butler is certainly out of place in the main foyer at this hour. Hunched over the black, old-fashioned telephone we have mounted on the wall, speaking in pained tones into the receiver.

 

“… Send them immediately; I don’t know what to do! The physician said it would be months, years before his condition degenerated to such a state and I checked all his vitals before…”

 

As I stepped out of earshot, I couldn’t help but notice the butler was missing his gloves. His shirt was untucked, too; his face streaked by mucus and tears. He looked disgusting. He really should clean up before he received any company at all.

 

I stepped into the kitchen, met by the cook but not the usual sound of bubbling pots or frying pans with sizzling contents. The cook had already prepared my breakfast, but had not begun work on my master’s food.

 

“Hello, cook.”

 

He replied with the usual soft grunt. He brought over my finished breakfast tray, placed it before me and then stood still, staring a little listlessly at the door. It seemed, for the first while in a long while, the cook had nothing more to do.

 

“I imagine you might not have much to do for quite a while, cook,” I murmur softly, after swallowing chewed apple slice and dabbing my lips politely on a napkin. “Master has taken a very unfortunate turn.”

 

He stares down at me for a moment, as if mulling this over. He does not really seem to smile, though it would be hard to tell if he did, as the missing portion of his lip on the burned side of his face has part of his teeth constantly exposed to the open air. But he does make a long, low warble of understanding, nodding his head slowly. He pulls the white cap from his head, and shuffles from the kitchen and down the service hall.

 

I didn’t see the cook again, that day. He seemed to simply vanish from that manor after that breakfast. I do not know where he went.

 

When I had finished eating I walked back out into the main foyer and found the phone abandoned, the receiver left crooked in its cradle. The butler certainly was rendered out of character by recent events. I heard him hurrying around upstairs, his heavy footsteps travelling between my master’s bedroom and his personal study just across the hall. Oddly enough, I could smell smoke coming from one of these two rooms. 

 

When I lingered at the doorway to the study I saw the butler crouched over a metal mesh waste paper basket, frantically burning a stack of paper documents and such. I found it very peculiar. He did not notice me in the slightest, consumed as he was by his work, so I simply moved further down the hall to the classroom, shutting the door behind me to keep out the acrid stench of burning photographic paper.

 

It was here I lingered for the next hour or two, fondly reading through the events of the very first Bastille Day in an old history textbook. I enjoyed the opportunity to browse through information at my leisure instead of having my curriculum decided for me, and in any case I felt it would be wise to keep out of the way for the meantime. 

 

It was only when I heard the resounding clang of the front doorbell that I finished the page I was on and then set the book aside without bothering to mark my place. Out in the hall, I heard male voices coming from the main foyer. I did not recognise any of them, save for the butler’s. It seemed I certainly had set off a peculiar chain of events.

 

Pausing at the study, I looked at the now smouldering waste paper basket, filled mostly with ashes and charred scraps that spilled out of the gaps in the mesh and onto the floor. If master had still been alive, he certainly would have suffered a conniption of some kind upon witnessing such filth on the floor of his personal office. Curiously, I crept closer to the mess while the serious male tones yammering in the foyer signalled that they were all still downstairs. At the top of the pile lay a scrap of thick paper sizable larger than the rest, its edges burned. I picked it up and turned it over to discover a photograph of myself.

 

I have said that I am eleven, but this is only an estimate. I do not know my own birthday. Instead I gauge time in years by each annual photograph taken with myself, my master and the butler out in the rose garden. It is taken in autumn, when there is little pollen but unfortunately the roses are not in bloom. But the leaves still make for a pleasant backdrop. In all of my memory, I can recollect about six or seven of these photographs. I have added an additional five years or so to account for when I was simply too young to remember. 

 

In this photograph, I am quite young. It is from before the time it became necessary for my master to move around in a wheelchair all of the time, though because a traditional photograph takes a long time to sit for he is still seated in a chair. I stand by his side, only just matching his height even though he seated and he is not a tall man. The butler stands behind us, a folded white cloth over one arm signalling his status. I brush off most of the ash and slip it into the front pocket of my pinafore for safekeeping.

 

I don’t take it because I want a keepsake. I take it because the butler wanted it destroyed. My final cheat to him, though it seems a little fleeting after my last glorious crescendo.

 

With the photograph safely stashed I venture out of the study and curiously move to the wooden railings overlooking the main foyer, where the hallway joins the staircase. Looking down, I see the butler standing before three men I have never seen before. They are all wearing dark suits. I am very quiet, and very good at being unseen. The two men standing directly before the butler, hands irreverently shoved in their pockets as they mutter blunt words,

 

“…You were under contract. If we have to provide new, ah, lodgings, like. Then that’s coming out of the estate.”

 

“See, we don’t break contracts lightly. The old guy knew that.”

 

…They don’t seem to notice me at all, their eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. But there is another, his eyes graced not with dark sunglasses but with dark shadows, like my own. His slate grey eyes are already staring right at me, as if he expected me to materialise there all along. An imposing figure, he stands even taller than the butler, which means he must be over six feet tall. His dark hair and eyes cast an overall greyish tinge to the skin stretched over robust, defined cheekbones and a wide, serious mouth. I dare not even bat an eyelash, standing my ground. Though I thought it might, the childish urgency, the panic of being discovered that I assumed might fill me under a gaze like this… none of it is there.

 

I stare back with the porcelain mask, reserved and unchanging. This man could know my very soul, with a gaze like that. But he could never prove it while I am careful. 

 

After a long moment like this, he looks away, turning to the much shorter, thinner man who is doing most of the talking. 

 

“I’m going to check the body.” His voice is calm, a deep and mellow tone without an affected accent.

 

The man with the more rat-like face is much less reserved. The thin lips set above his pointed chin curl back at the interruption and he waved a hand liberally in a dismissive gesture. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, knock yerself out, mister Varelli,” he murmurs in a casual, street-worthy drawl. “Be all official-like while I take care of business.”

 

The taller man, this Varelli, climbs the staircase. I watch him without moving from my place at the banister. He looks at me again only as one immaculately polished shoe lands on the top step with the softest of sounds imaginable for a figure so large. I stare back petulantly, but he says nothing as he turns like some monolithic creature and moves across into the hall, almost gliding into my master’s bedroom.

 

I don’t know what he is checking, but I expect with eyes like his it will become apparent to him what has happened. The real question is if anyone will care. The real point to wonder here is if anyone in the world besides the butler cares at all how it came to be that my master is now dead.

 

He’s back in minutes. I’ve been watching the doorway. There is the faintest of creases in his pale brow as he glares at me pensively. Then he travels back down the staircase with little more sound than he made on the way up.

 

“Well?” The smaller man asks with a grimace, jerking his head over to Varelli’s direction.

 

“Respiratory failure,” he remarks dryly, and for once his eyes do not flick up at me. “As expected. The real problem is that he’s still too young to take.”

 

Who was too young? Was it me? Who is this man and what claim does he think he has staked in my life?

 

Affronted by the mystery, I release my dainty grip on the banister and flounce back to my bedroom, shutting the door tersely. There are things to be done, anyway. I take out the white satin Blochs and sew the left ankle ribbon more securely to the shoe. I score the underside of the Bloch to increase grip on the hardwood. I am still restless.

 

I open up my wardrobe and stare at its contents. I have a dozen or dresses, skirts and blouses. All are white, black or grey. I have three pairs of shoes, including the Blochs. I cannot help but feel plagued by the sense that I will soon lose most of these things. Now that I look at them all at once, even though there has been a clear attempt to keep my possessions down to the bare necessities; most of the items I own still seem trifling, especially given that things are washed here everyday.

 

At the bottom of my closet, next to the space where I line up my shoes there is a large, white box. It holds my winter coat for the months when I am expected to go outside and a cardigan is insufficient to keep my teeth from chattering in the cold. I put the box on my bed and open it up, removing the coat and hanging it up in my closet. I expect I have already outgrown it anyway. But I can use the box.

 

I spend the next while moving back and forth across my bedroom, packing the coat box with what I determine to really be the necessities. I pack one night dress, one day dress, one short-sleeved blouse and a second pinafore skirt. Given my immediate need to conceal my wrists, I also pack an additional long-sleeve blouse to the one I am already wearing. I also pack seven pairs of socks, and of course, underwear. I pack one leotard, one wrap skirt and one pair of tights as well as the ballet flats and the Blochs with their small sewing and maintenance kit. I pack the white case that holds my medical supplies and my hairbrush with a few extra hair ties.

 

It is just when I have slipped the photograph from my pocket to the very bottom of the box and closed the lid that I hear two stomping pairs of footsteps coming down the hall, and that coarse, sticky accent again.

 

“… Gonna have to find a bag or somethin’ for the kid to put his shit in, Shins. Ya reckon you got something in the trunk?”

 

He opens the door abruptly without knocking, and finds me standing there with an ivory cardigan already around my shoulders, beside the box on my bed. I am annoyed he hasn’t knocked, and I stare at him incredulously as I wait for him to explain himself. 

 

He has now removed his sunglasses, and judging by the way the shorter man flinches at the sight of me, I expect he finds the stare a little unsettling. I dimly remember being asked to stop that on a few occasions during my time at the hospital. I did respect the nurses’ wishes, but I see no reason why I should do the same for this stranger.

 

The taller one doesn’t seem to mind at all, his eyes still covered by tinted lenses and a crooked grin seemingly fixed permanently on his face. Looking at him more closely now, I see the thumbnails outside of his pockets are stained with black, and there are strange shapes underneath the front crease of his suit slacks, as though he has something poorly concealed there.

 

“Uhh; hi, kid,” the rat-faced man ventures cautiously, making an uncertain wave with his hand. “My name’s Benny. What’re you called?”

 

I purse my lips slightly. He doesn’t extend his hand to shake as is proper, so neither do I. “My name is Aure,” I say at last, pronouncing it as I prefer.

 

“Aure. Alright, cool,” he grins a little, sticking his hands back into his pockets. I don’t understand some of the words he is saying, but at least he is saying my name in the way I want and his tone is warmer. I feel marginally more open to listening to him.

 

“Listen, Aure. You’re gonna have to come with us. We’re gonna find you a new place to go, so uh… shit. You pack that thing already?”

 

He points to the box on the bed. I nod. It makes him chuckle.

  
“Huh, kid. I guess you’re pretty smart,” he remarks, scratching the back of his head. “Come on, then. Shins here is a real speed-demon, like. We’ll getcha where you need to go in no time.”

 

I suppose this means I’ll be leaving now.


	4. Apples

My name is Aure. I have been at this strange place for quite some time.

 

I had not known what the phrase ‘speed-demon’ meant, but for most of the car trip the sheer force of inertia kept me pinned back against my seat. On one particularly sharp turn my head glanced off the window as my petite frame slid within my seatbelt and only then did this Benny character scold ‘Shins’ to keep his driving in check. At least, that is a more polite reiteration of what he said at the time.

 

I imagine his concern had something to do with the fact that when I arrived at this place I was meant to be and the men in black suits passed me over to men in burgundy, Benny told them tersely that under no circumstances was I to be marked or ‘damaged’. He said he had a profit to cut, and mentioned something about bruised fruit being less appealing. Then one of the smiling men in burgundy gave me an apple, and I allowed myself to be placated as long as I was still present to hear their plans.

 

“Anyone offering less than six digits can fuck off, ya hear me? We gotta keep the riff-raff out, like. He’s available on a six year contract.”

 

It seems I am to be sold. I am not terribly startled by the notion. I am aware of the historical slavery that was the backbone of the colonial era, and it was never mentioned to me during my education that this practice was abolished; so why wouldn’t it still be in practice, albeit modernised? The description of being a slave seems like the way of life I have always known. I do as I am told.

 

There are very curious people in this place, of all creeds and even colours. The entire staff is clean and charismatic of course; I am referring to the other people to be sold. 

 

The majority are young. There are plenty who seem to be a similar age to myself, and plenty more who seem to be suffering the middle ground between childhood and adulthood. They appear the strangest, with mature bodies stuck with young faces or adult faces concealing juvenile minds. I am very aware that I too will soon be entering this middle ground. I see it in the mirror each morning. Each day my hair grows a little darker, or my bone structure becomes a little more pronounced under my thin cheeks. My skeleton slowly grows in height and size despite me eating so little. It is inevitable that I will grow old and the façade of a porcelain doll will fade.

 

I worry this transformation will seal me into a fate of being undesired. That which is ugly does not deserve to be seen.

 

Some of the others are unruly, certainly ugly enough in behaviour to warrant discipline. They kick, spit and scream bloody murder and revolution, swiftly earning themselves a straight-jacket and a gag. I interpret this as a horrific, public version of the Room, and from then on I don’t utter a sound to any prospective buyer. I keep my conversation with the staff as minimal as possible. 

 

I certainly have no plans of escape. What do I know about surviving on my own? Who else would ever help me, except those who have a use for me? I know I require a host in order to survive. Lacking a host, this place will do. It is very clean here.

 

I did cause quite a stir during the first few days at the slave market. The notion of escape was so foreign to me that I assumed there would be neither suspicion nor panic if I left the little space they had cleared for me to sit and watch the clients browse. I had been hungry, and one of the staff had previously told me quite keenly that it was always acceptable for me to ask for more food, so I had gone to the kitchen for an apple. With my talents for moving so quietly, no one noticed me leave. I returned to a set of much panicked staff hastily organising a search party. They nearly jumped out of their burgundy tunics when I quietly asked one of them to move aside so I could return to my seat.

 

There is now a lacquered fruit bowl next to the cushion where I sit every day, filled with apples that I may eat at my leisure. It was selected and placed very carefully as though arranging an artwork, on the opposite side to the smaller pillow that bears the satin Blochs. The fruit bowl was rationalised by the fact that it would allow me to remain under supervision without going hungry. The staff also commented that it would be good for clients to see me eating. Judging by the filled-out skin of the other slaves in comparison to my own hollow cheeks, I suppose my weight is a point of worry.

 

I am not a terribly popular display, despite the advertisements of my ballet skills and my willingness to eat. It is because I am alienating. My stillness and my quietness are not a normal thing in the market; to be so devoid of passion renders my expression into a muter form of sorrow that fails to incense the desires of the more sadistic clientele. Even the ones in straight-jackets get led away within a week or two; usually by men with dark grins and tendency to rub their hands together. From what I can analyse of their intentions, it seems that disciplining the unruly is a past time of the wealthy that is equally as popular as rescuing the unfortunate.

 

Yet, at the same time that this is a benefit, it also means that I do not appear tragic enough to warrant saving by self-proclaimed charitable souls with delusions of benevolence. 

 

The lack of attention was a vicious cycle. I could not foresee a time when a passer-by would suddenly decide that I was truly worth the exceptionally high price Benny had set for me, available upon enquiry. All I did was sit and stare at my ever-changing surrounds, occasionally eating apples and wondering, ever wondering if it would be ultimately safer for me to be purchased by a sadist or a saviour.

 

I did not know that it would be neither a kind man nor a cruel man that would take me away from the limbo of the market, but the terminally indecisive soul of an artist.

 

It happened on a day like any other at the market, but on this occasion there was a ripple in the crowd. The clients are as diverse as the slaves with merely the common ground between them of having a vast amount of wealth; but it is very unusual for them to draw attention to themselves, or act in any way loud and obnoxious. On most days, once any screaming slaves are silenced, the market is filled with a flurry of whispers and hushed conversations, and nothing more. It is as if they fear being discovered while making their purchases. They look over their shoulders and keep out of one another’s way.

 

One man did not. A hefty man with a boisterous gait and a reddened face cut a very clear path down the aisle of displays, and all those who didn’t make way received a clip across the ankles with the cane he carried. Floating along in his wake was a thinner, middle-aged man with rimless spectacles and an olive cardigan, who had not yet brushed his hair today. 

 

“Honestly, Matthias if you don’t go ahead and pick one there’ll be nothing left to look at except for those god-awful mental cases!”

 

Compared to the louder man who was respectably suited and wearing polished shoes, I would have assumed that this Matthias character was a slave himself, so meek was his disposition. But I was wrong.

 

“Ha!” the larger man barked, jabbing his cane in my direction the moment he spied me. “Now here is a little lovely. What about this one, Matty? Would she knock that wretched muse of yours into gear?”

 

The staff member minding me, already aware that I would not utter a word in my own defense, was quick to step forward. 

 

“I’m afraid this display’s appearance is misleading, Mister Landon. He is a boy, named Aure.” He explained neatly. Rather than repulse him, I was stricken to discover that the notion of a boy in girl’s clothing only deepened the brash man’s interest in me.

 

“A boy,” he repeated as he leaned forward on his cane, leering. “What an oddity! It’s quite convincing! Look here, Matthias, it seems he likes apples. I say, Aure; would you consider yourself a regular Eve?”

 

I stare back at him quite petulantly. It only makes him laugh at his own joke.

 

The thin man adjusted his spectacle and shuffled closer, and I could see he was looking pensively between me and the Blochs. He picks at the sleeve of his cardigan, which I notice is fraying. I sincerely doubt, judging by his manner of dress, that he could afford the price Benny has set for me.

 

“Do you dance?” he asks finally, and quite unlike his friend his voice is quiet like mine. Somewhat settled by this, I nod, holding his eye.

 

“Aure,” the man in the burgundy tunic coaxes. “Put on your shoes and show the nice men a spin.”

 

It is not called a spin, it is called a pirouette; but I understand what the staff wants. So I reach to my left and pull the shoes closer to me. I am not dressed properly for ballet; I am wearing the white day dress and white socks. I have not stretched properly. But I am able to do a simple pirouette. I take my time with the ribbons to make sure they are tied correctly. Even this Mister Landon character seems content to wait, still drinking in the sight of me with his piggish eyes.

 

I have not been out of practice for these past weeks. I have simply been doing much less of it. I have free time to do so in the evenings, when the clientele have gone home and we eat and bathe and go about existing until we have a purpose in life once more. The sores and bleeding on my toes are not nearly as bad as they used to be, however the corns and bone structure are quite permanent.

 

When I am ready I rise up from my cushion and sweep smoothly from fifth position into one single, slow pirouette. I linger en pointe a moment longer before I let my heels touch the floor again in a curt movement. 

 

Landon guffaws at my apparent reluctance to impress. But when I look at the meeker man’s entranced hazel eyes I know that even this apathetic display has not failed to make an impression.

 

“Landon,” he mutters quietly, stepping backward once. “I’d like this one.”

 

“Indeed you would,” the brute agrees, wetting his lips before turning back to the staff member. “Whatever the price for this one is, just charge it my account, would you? But have my friend here sign the paperwork. It’s his birthday! We’ll have a celebration!”

 

I am quietly instructed to change back into my school shoes and fetch my things from my room. By the time I return, the bespectacled man has just finished inking his name at the bottom of a contract in a big, loopy scrawl. He sets down the pen and then looks over at me, arms hanging listlessly by his sides.

 

“Would you like me to carry that for you?” he asks curiously, inclining his head slightly towards the white coat box I hold in my arms.

 

“No, master,” I speak finally. The paperwork is finished now, so there is no avoiding my obligation to address him properly.

 

“Carry it for him! Fucking hell, Matthias! It’s a good thing we found one so well behaved, or he’d be walking all over you!” Landon groans, massaging his temples. “I need a drink. Come on; let’s get him home and crack open the wine! I haven’t a thing to do except enjoy life’s delights until tomorrow afternoon.”

 

I follow them to the elevator. It takes us to the car park, and we enter yet another stretched black town car. It seems all my time on the road, however short, is spent exclusively in ambulances or town cars.

 

There is a blackened screen between us and the driver’s seat, but judging by the smooth journey, I expect the driver isn’t Shins.


	5. A New Home

All the men I’ve ever known seem to live in manors.

 

The market had no windows and was entered and exited through an underground car park, so I was never very sure of its location, but my new master’s abode was very similar to that of my old master. A large, two-storied classical home with a long driveway lined by trees, though by the mere presence of colour there seemed to be a life breathed into it that my old home never had. At the last turn of the driveway, we passed an island bursting with floral colour before pulling up at the steps.

 

There were planter boxes on either side of the huge oak doors at the front entrance bearing bluebells and small, white blossoms I couldn’t identify. I spent some time looking at them while Mister Landon hefted himself out of the car. 

 

Matthias was the last to exit, but the first to walk in the door. A maid was already waiting there, and she curtsied only to him. I suppose he had to be the master of the household. Mr. Landon must live elsewhere.

 

“Amelia, this is… Aure,” Matthias gestured to me awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “I’m not sure if the room you prepared would be appropriate, so we might have to uh, redecorate.”

 

“Whatever for?” the maid remarked incredulously. This Amelia was young, with crimped red hair disappearing into the white cap at the back of her head. “She seems perfectly suited for the room setup.”

 

I lifted an eyebrow at this exchange. It was more words than I’d ever caught maids uttering to the butler in my entire life, let alone the the head of a household. Indeed it seemed there was no butler here, only this woman with patches of pink on her cheeks and a whimsical disposition. It struck me as unconventional, but in the most convenient of ways.

 

“He,” Matthias corrected gingerly, but with resolve. I realised there was once again confusion towards my gender. I had thought the illusion was fast-fading as of late, but then again perhaps I was being dramatic.

 

Amelia’s expression flickered only briefly, and she regarded my throat curiously for a moment as if looking for a cue towards my masculinity. I didn’t know what she’d find there that would give me away, for I was half a decade away from being able to grow a beard.

 

“Oh, what does it matter? He’s still so sweet!” she cooed, stepping forward and gently prising the coat box out of my arms. “Come along, Aure, and we’ll see if you like this room. If you don’t, we can plan some changes.”

 

She was as syrupy as the nurses from the hospital. I suspect it to be the female condition. Made docile by the fact that there would be no butler to contend with here, I nodded softly and began to follow her up the stairs. There were columns along the entryway, and the walls were painted, not whitewashed. This house had none of the sterility of my former home.

 

“I’ll come with you,” Matthias pressed, hot on our heels after glancing over his shoulder at Mr Landon, who was still leaning against the side of the car, sharing raucous banter with the chauffeur; a man still unseen through the tinted windscreen. “Landon will show up for dinner in his own time. I am interested in learning more about you, Aure.”

 

Learning about me? I pause on the stairway and look down at the man, my elevation making this possible despite the difference in our heights. My sombre, perturbed gaze is met with tangible excitement in those hazel eyes; a state I had not previously seen this man in before. It seems he is only relaxed in his own home.

 

“Learn about me?” I repeat, and the more I speak the more I notice the differences in our accents. I am not cultured enough to place their origin. “Whatever do you mean, master?”

 

“Who taught you to dance? You’re so young. I know nothing about ballet, but I’m sure it’s normal to be much older before you can stand on your toes.”

 

Amelia was waiting at the top of the stairs; she was facing away, not doubt, to avoid looking expectant towards her superior.

 

I pause. It is not normal for me to participate in a conversation where the other party knows nothing about the topic. It is a fresh way of considering how to put together my words. “I was taught by my late master. I began en pointe at the age of six,” I offer stiffly, looking back up at the top of the stairs.

 

“Six…” he repeats softly, wondering aloud. I notice the ruff of Amelia’s petticoat reaches all the way down to just above her ankles. By comparison I feel as though everything below my knees is vulnerable and exposed. I know he is staring at my feet and it makes me cringe.

 

I cannot stand it. I begin again up the stairs to join the maid at the top. After a moment he snaps out of his trance and stumbles after us, following down the hall to one of the glossy white doors with a golden handle. Amelia opens it fluidly and bustles into the room with a faint hum on her lips, placing the coat box on a desk. There are white gossamer curtains shrouding a large bay window and she throws them open without flourish. 

 

The room makes my eyebrows rise. It is not the curtains I take issue with, but almost everything else. There is a bed parallel to the window that is covered entirely in a lavender coverlet embroidered with flower motifs. Its excess nauseates me.

 

Amelia turns on her heel with her hands clasped together and pride budding in her chest, but upon seeing my expression her small bust deflates and her expression follows suit.

 

“…Oh dear,” she says, defeated. “I suppose you don’t like it after all.”

 

I am not sure how honest I am allowed to be with this woman, so I take a ginger approach. “I am not terribly fond of lavender,” I murmur, not meeting her eye as I pull down at the hem of my dress. “Plain sheets would really suffice.”

 

“Oh,” Amelia says meekly. “Well, yes; I can certainly arrange that, if it’s what you’d like…”

 

In looking away, I notice something bizarre upon the shelves. It is a tiny person, or at least the likeness of one; a female with spirals of golden hair and grotesquely large, doe eyes set with plastic lashes. “What,” I burst out with the most insolence I have ever exuded in front of other people, “Is that?”

 

“What is what?” She falters, turning to follow my gaze. I point. “The doll? Surely you must have seen a doll before.” She quirks her eyebrows at me, placing her hands on her narrow hips in a quizzical way. “I think it’s nice.”

 

Doll. What an ugly, ugly word. I've read descriptions of dolls and marionettes, of course, but to see one in person, to have it staring back at me with its beady eyes makes my skin crawl. “I don’t care for it,” I say frostily, stepping backwards towards the door. My heel scuffs the toe of Matthias’ shoe since he was standing so keenly behind me, and I whirl away and make for the hall. “Please remove it at once.”

 

“Oh, Aure!” the wail of heartbroken, feminine protest follows me down the corridor but I will hear none of it. My master is already hot on my heels; though not a heavy man his footsteps are undoubtedly louder than my own. I only stop back at the stairwell because I realise I have no idea where I am going. I don’t know where anything is in this place.

 

“You are a very well-spoken boy,” Matthias chimes in, fascinated.

 

I feel a tremor of guilt. “I apologise for speaking out of turn, master,” I murmur uneasily, my small hands worrying the painted banister.

 

“Not at all; in fact, I expect you to talk,” he smiles warmly. “As long as you keep to the rules I set you, you may talk all you like. I’m just quite… particular, about some things. I like routine; or at least, sometimes I do. That’s not really for you to worry about.”

 

What interest would a grown man have in a child’s conversation? I would only bother him with questions. “Do you have a profession, master?” I pipe up immediately, inquisition creeping into my tone. 

 

He seems surprised by the questions, but he remains relatively warm though it is now seasoned with an awkward, political way of phrasing things. “I guess you could say I’m an author,” he says after a moment. “I have had many books I’ve written published. But most of this is old money.” He gestures at our surrounds and shrugs slightly. “I inherited this home from my parents, though its not the one I grew up in. This was our summer house.”

 

The idea of two houses sounds frivolous to me, but I am more interested in the books.

 

“What do you write?” I press.

 

“Hmm. Come, I’ll show you.” He beckons me down the hallway and I followed with a sliver of resignation. He doesn’t strike me as a man intent on routine at all. It seems he hasn’t even brushed his hair today. He pauses at a door. “This is my office,” he explains, without opening it. “I don’t want you to come in here. I can’t be disturbed when I write.”

 

I stare blankly at the door. “I won’t enter this room, master.”

 

“Good,” he smiles and then moves on to the very next door. “This room, on the other hand, you may enter as often as you like.”

 

I am rendered mute by what lies behind this door; for I have never seen quite so many books all in one place. I count five aisles of shelves at a sweeping glance, and the walls are lined with even more rows of literature.

 

“This wasn’t in the original house layout, of course; I ordered some renovations when I moved in permanently,” he says airily. Looking beyond the shelves, I do indeed see a column set in the wall that is out of alignment with the others, no doubt hiding the seam where a wall was knocked down to make this grand space.

 

“Just how many of these did you write, master?” I ask, quite incredulously.

 

He chuckles. “Good god, only about five or so. I’d say just one or two were actual hits after they were published. You could say I’m quite the recluse. But in that sense, the snobs love me.”

 

I’m not sure what he is talking about entirely, but I can grasp that he has a reasonably established ego in regards to his writing. “You must be quite accomplished,” I say lightly, moving further into the room and peering curiously at the titles on the shelves.

 

I glance back with hooded eyes and I can tell the whisper of a grin set tensely in his jaw is guarded and uncertain. His eyes flash a mild form of apprehension which leads me to believe that whatever snobs are, they are snarky and deceitful creatures. I stare back at him, confronted for the first time with a true vision of masculine insecurity. The men before me have never wavered nor licked their lips nervously before, as though fearing some sort of judgement.

 

Perhaps in my accumulating age, these pale eyes of mine have gained some sort of power. Perhaps my gaunt countenance is simply eerie in a way that makes men coil into themselves and they don’t like what they see there.

 

“You could say that,” he says at last, turning stiffly and marching to the shelf opposite me. He scans the titles swiftly, then plucks something thin and leather bound and hands it down to me with a small cloud of dust. I flinch slightly and don’t take it until it settles. “Here,” he offers. “This book is called  _ Alice in Wonderland _ . I didn’t write it, but then again I don’t think my books are suitable for children, not even well-educated ones. I think you’ll like it.”

 

What a queer title. I peer at it, taking the small novella into my hands and trying to make sense of the phrase. “What country, exactly, is Wonderland?” I frown. I’ve not heard of this in all my lessons, and it seems unlikely to me that a woman did something of such historical note that it warranted an entire novel, albeit a small one.

 

“Wonderland isn’t real,” Matthias replies stoutly, somewhat taken aback. “It’s fiction.”

 

Oh. That makes more sense. “So it’s philosophy,” I confirm aloud, turning it over in my hands. Naturally a leather cover lacks a blurb detailing the theological musings within.

 

“Philosophy? Not at all! It’s fiction. A children’s story, though adults might still find some merit in it.” 

 

I stare at him with a furrowed brow and he squints back. 

 

“You mean to tell me, Aure, that you’ve never read a book that wasn’t fact or theory? You’ve never read any of the classics?” He remarks, his realisation growing.

 

“I had hoped for some medical journals to be in this room,” I comment snidely, hugging the book to my chest.

 

“Medical journals! Whatever for? There’s no need for them!” He cries out, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “You’ll read that one and you’ll tell me what you think of it! I don’t want to see you touch another book on these shelves until you do.”

 

I fall stoic at the instruction. “Very well, master. I will read this book,” I mutter, glowering inwardly as I move back to the corridor. 

 

“Where are you going?” he asks again, suddenly rendered uncertain just as quickly as he became firm.

 

“To place this book on my desk,” I reply evenly, gazing fluidly over my shoulder.

 

“When you have done that, I need you to wash your hands and face before coming through to the drawing room to join Landon and I. The bathroom is across the hall from your room. There’s soap in a dish next to the sink, I need you to use it.”

 

I meet the urgency in his tone rather coolly. “Yes, master.”

 

After all, I am very used to washing before meals. But I cannot ever recall a meal taken in the drawing room before. That’s simply not the purpose of such a room.

 

This house is very strange.


	6. The Rape

I found Miss Amelia, her face flushed from sulking, woefully peeling back the lavender lace coverlet from my bed to exchange it for a set of crisp, white linen. Her eye suddenly seeming quite huge in her face, and when I addressed her, she looked up with such obedience that I was taken aback. I had never held such authority in my own words before.

 

“Miss Amelia,” I had said; gingerly, for she seemed prone to hysteria. I placed the book I was burdened with on my desk and left it there.

 

“Yes, Aure?” She tightened her lips, looking worried. 

 

“I was hoping you might direct me to the bathroom,” I explained, and she seemed to soften after that.

 

“It’s the very next door down, on the left,” she says softly, a little smile pulling at the corners of her lips. I simply nod quickly with wide eyes and skitter away, locking the door behind me in the decadently turquoise-tiled bathroom so I can wash my hands and face in seclusion.

 

It is not that I hold contempt for Miss Amelia and her fondness of me; it is simply that I find it uncomfortable. I have grown accustomed to rigidity, and strict social decorum. When I step into the drawing room and find Matthias sitting there in an armchair looking pale and a loudly bragging Mister Landon pounding a fist upon the round table before them, I pass through the tension like a ghost. The atmosphere is awkward, as though there is one too many people in the room but none of us can each decide which one truly doesn’t belong. 

 

I imagine each of us has a different idea of who might the least wanted person present. It feels natural to me, quite like my upbringing. Somewhat soothed, I take my seat silently until Mister Landon roughly puts down a drained crystal tumbler next a stemmed glass with a red stain at the bottom, making a grand sweeping gesture in my direction.

 

“Aure!” he barks raucously, “How good of you to join us, boy! I was just asking Matthias where you had gone off to.”

 

This is a brazen-faced lie, as moments before he was scorning someone by the name of Thibault who works in one of his subsidiaries. I look back at him blankly, knowing I am obligated to respond. In the end I can’t quite stand to keep his eye when I speak, so I cast my eyes down to my hands clasped in my lap. “I was instructed to wash my face before joining you.”

 

He fixes me with his watery eyes for a moment, his tongue thoughtfully flicking out to wet his lips as I tighten the grip on my own hands under his inspection. I don’t like this man, from his loud voice right down to the burst blood vessels collecting in a bouquet upon his nose.

 

“Yes, well,” he continues, irreverent of my serious nature. “Matthias here always did seem to be a stickler for social niceties. Not that I’m complaining, mind! Here, try a tot of this.”

 

There are more stemmed glasses set in the centre of the table set next to several green glass bottles of dark liquid and just one filled with an amber liquid. Grappling the table for support, he reaches forward and grabs this amber bottle by the neck with one meaty hand. When he pours generously into a spare glass, Matthias begins to protest.

 

“Landon, he’s too young.”

 

“Nonsense; it’s only a drop!” Landon dismisses my master with a wave of his hand before rising partially from his seat to push the glass over to me. It is only filled halfway, so the liquid fails to reach the lip of glass to spill over the edge. I stare at it, not wanting to touch it until the body of the beverage stops moving in its elevated prison. 

 

Matthias looks on with a furrow in his brow, but inside himself he’s already swayed sides. “Tell him what you think, Aure,” he instructs, albeit much more gently than his companion. “You only need to take a taste.”

 

With resignation, I pick up the glass, holding it carefully by the cup rather than the fragile-looking stem. I take a single, well-measured sip as though it were a dose of medicine. Even though it doesn’t linger for very long upon my palate, it feels as though the taste of it makes my tongue tighten. Moderately bitter, I frown and feel less quenched in thirst than I did before. It is nothing like water, or milk; or indeed medicine, for that matter.

 

“Well, what do you think?” Landon presses, leaning forward keenly. 

 

I don’t think I like it but I am wary of insulting it, given that they have both plainly been drinking from these bottles for the past quarter hour and have several more laid out for the rest of the evening.

 

“It’s very… dry, for a drink,” I announce, finally choosing a neutral word. Whatever I have implied with this, it sends Landon into a state of near-hysterical humour.

 

“Dry!” he roars gleefully, wiping fluid from one eye. “Matthias, you’ve got yourself little critic in the making! I tell you something, boy; that had better be dry. That sip was older than you!”

 

How could anything be over twelve years old and still be fit to consume? Alarmed, I turn to Matthias with the sip already squirming in my stomach. “What is it?”

 

“It’s alcohol, Aure. Don’t you know what that is?” he asks, genuinely perplexed by my panic.

 

“It’s not just  _ alcohol _ you swine! This is thirty year old scotch whiskey! Ballantines, to be precise; a very fine maker if I do say so myself…”

 

I turn my nose up at it, and neatly push the base of the glass away from me. “I don’t care for this alcohol. It burns my throat.”

 

“I’ll finish it, then,” Landon grumbles darkly, snatching up my glass and pouring it deftly into his own crystal tumbler. “Matthias, you’ll have to get that little redhead of yours to buy something like apple juice, or breast milk.”

 

He means to mock me. Even for all my lack of social knowledge, I can interpret this simply because Landon is such a brash oaf in his approach. “Water will suffice,” I reply neatly.

 

“I’m very interested in learning what you do and do not know,” Matthias comments curiously, pushing his glasses higher upon the bridge of his nose. “It’s as if you’ve grown up in a vacuum.”

 

“Oh, do shut up, Matthias! Here,” Landon says sourly, pouring a heavy measure of scotch into my master’s own tumbler. “I don’t keep your company to hear that godforsaken drivel you jot down for those yuppies. Finish that and you ought to be fixed temporarily.”

 

“Yes… well. Perhaps another time,” my master trails off nervously, unbuttoning the collar of his dress shirt. He behaves like a very different man under the burden of his companion’s company.

 

I watch as his picks up the glass and drained it dutifully, coughing as it reaches his stomach and inhaling deeply through his nose. This whiskey must have an affect on the mind. I want medical knowledge more than ever before, but even uninformed I feel wiser and wiser with each moment I’ve spent not drinking it. 

 

The conversation goes rapidly downhill after that, with Landon growing increasingly vocal with his vitriol against the man named Thibault and Matthias interjecting intermittently with neutral or agreeable statements in a weak attempt to assuage him. Though dinner was spoken of, all that is consumed at the table is the alcohol and as such I go both hungry and thirsty for the evening as I watch this drinking ritual like some sort of alien audience.

 

When the scotch bottle is half empty and several wine bottles are drained, I am weary and the chatter has long since turned to subjects I am not familiar with at all, using words I have never heard of. Many of them are slurred anyway; both men are red in the face and swaying. I am beginning to suspect that alcohol may be a poison of some kind. The hour is late, and I am due to go to bed. When there is a lull in the laughter, I stand.

 

“I need to retire now, master,” I say softly, and Matthias blinks blearily at me for a moment before nodding and staggering out of his chair. Landon joins him at the elbow but he offers very poor support.

 

“Uh, yes… sure. Goodnight, Aure,” he hiccups in the middle, pushing his spectacles up above his hairline with a groan. “We… I’ll… in the morning.”

 

They both make a move towards the door but their inebriation makes their progress slow and I have already reached my room by the time they even enter the corridor. There I find that Miss Amelia has turned down my bed and laid out my night dress for me, and in addition to this there is a glass of water awaiting me on my bedside table. I drink it all as though it is the elixir of knowledge, relieved and suddenly much fonder of the maid my master employs. As for my need for food, I expect I will have to make do with breakfast. It would not be the first time I have skipped a meal, and the water fills my stomach to take the edge off.

 

There is no courtesy screen in this room, and it feels strange to simply undress right there in the centre of it. Beyond my second-storey window the view stretches for miles so there could be no voyeur gazing upon my body, but the atmosphere still feels queer. I am grateful to get my nightdress on and change to a fresh pair of socks. With much less ballet practice, the wounds on my feet have healed over for the first time I can genuinely recollect. They are still grotesque, but it does mean I can go to bed without taking the time to replace the bandages, for now there are only scars there. All I need to do is bathe.

 

The corridor is quiet and dimly lit. Wherever my master and Mister Landon have gotten to, they are out of earshot. When it is serene like this, I find it very easy to warm to the household and I skitter down the hallway to the bathroom. The crown moulding and turquoise tiles are all a little unnecessary but it is not an obscenely decorated room and I enjoy my bath. When I am clean again I braid my hair and pull my nightdress back over my bony shoulders. I am looking forward to a rest.

 

There is someone in my room.

 

I had almost forgotten what true tension; true unease feels like. It tightens at the collarbones, and the rest of my body follows the same upright, uneasy suit. “What do you want,” I ask curtly, glaring from the doorframe.

 

“Well now, what a rude little brat you seem to be out of your master’s eye.”

 

It is Landon. Standing in the middle of my room, he has the dress I just took off held in both his hands. He fingers the material for a moment with a leer, and then lets it drop back down to the foot of my bed. “Please get out,” I request coldly, standing aside in the doorway so that he might exit.

 

“Really now, boy; what would Matthias say if he heard you speaking like that?” he clicks his tongue, moving closer.

 

I turn frosty, then. My dislike for this man transcends that of the Butler and I have not known him for nearly as long. He is repulsive. “My name is Aure,” I say resolutely. “And I am the property of Matthias, not you. You are… inconsequential.”

 

He flinches, and the next thing I know is that a hot hand grabs my arm just above the elbow.

 

“Don’t!” he hisses, his face livid and foul breath grazing my cheek. “Don’t talk to me like you are an adult. You are a child and you are to be treated as such!” He shoves me further into my own bedroom and then closes the door. I hear the click of a latch and realise my room must have had a lock all along, on the inside, not the outside. He sneers at the shock on my face. I have never been manhandled like this before; not unless I was being transported to the Room like an inanimate object. The Butler was not allowed to linger. 

 

“What, you think I’m not allowed to touch a pretty thing like you?” he jeers, advancing upon me until the backs of my calves knock against the side of my bed. “Let me tell you something, boy; I bought you, and I’ll touch you all I like. And it seems like you still need to learn that a child should be seen and not heard!”

 

I don’t get the chance to reply; he shoves a hand in my face and knocks my small form down onto my bed, face first. My knees graze the corner of the mattress and with brute strength he pushes them underneath my stomach. My nightdress collects under my armpits, and I feel cold air as he yanks down my cotton underwear. 

 

He stops for a moment then, and I have no idea what he is doing. I have no idea what he could possibly want or gain from this apart from humiliation. My insides squirm as a sweaty palm caresses my exposed backside as though I have just been forced to eat a pot of cream. I’m not strong enough to lift myself up on my elbows under the force of his hand and he purposefully holds my head there to keep me from seeing. 

 

I hear a zipper, and the unbuckling of a belt. For a horrifying moment I think he is going to brutally beat me with the leather strap, but what he does next is worse. 

 

He’s cutting me, I’m sure of it. He has a thick blade stuck inside me in the most intimate of places and I am suddenly glad I have not been eating because I have to be bleeding from there now and my scream is muffled by my own bed sheets. Taking in what little air I can through the gaps in his fingers, the world starts to blur to white as he withdraws whatever weapon he is using against me and shoves it back inside me again and again. 

 

I don’t know how long it lasts. I honestly can’t remember, and my memory cannot trace the point at which my eyes became hot and wet nor can it properly pin the moment I felt whispered words in my ear and heavy breathing that was just too hard to register through the indignity of it. But at some point, after the stabs have melded into one another and become a constant, screaming tear there is a squeeze at my protruding hip bones and the fullness leaves me. My face is shoved down into the mattress for a moment more as he hurriedly returns his belt to his hefty hips, and when I finally look up, there is not sign of a knife or anything else in his hands.

 

Scrabbling away from him, I pull up my underwear and yank my nightdress back down to cover my shame, my vision still blurred by tears.

 

“Get out,” I hiss; my shallow chest rising and falling rapidly as I fight to get back the oxygen his weight robbed me of.

 

“Now Aure,” he deliberates, stepping closer with smiling teeth but hardness in his falsely simpering eyes. “I should tell you properly just how badly you’ve behaved. Matty is asleep now, but I’m sure you know how delicate he is. If he were to hear what you’ve just done, why; you’d seem so filthy to him, I doubt he’d want you at all!”

 

“Get  _ out _ ,” he reaches out to me and I recoil, hissing again as if they are the only two words I know in the world. He swallows; licking his lips again as he regards me and holds his ground for a moment more.

 

“At the very least,” he simpers again with a grin, “You should give me those briefs. They’re all bloody now, and he’ll see them. If you promise to be a good boy, I can hide them for you.”

 

His words are as poisonous as his scotch. A politician’s promise; the mere sight of him makes me feel as though I am covered with his slime. I can feel the wetness against my rear and I make sure to rise up on my knees to spare the bed sheets but I give him nothing. I don’t trust the way he wants them.

 

“You’ll take no souvenirs,” I bark back defiantly, my thin limbs trembling. “Now get out!”

 

When he makes another move towards me I all but scream it. “ _ Get out! _ ”

 

The increase in volume sends him skittish; as if worried someone may come running and they very well might. With a flicker of fear followed by a growl he storms over to the bedroom door and wrestles with the latch before shutting it behind him and I am left alone while he stomps down the hall.

 

I am alone.

 

It hurts to stand. It hurts to walk. None of this pain is the sort I am used to, from the ballet; it is a fresh and intolerable agony emanating from the very core of me. Biting back a cry I peel the cotton panties from my body and see the brilliant red stain there blooming like a rose in the middle. I wad them up into a little ball and clench it in my fist, overcome with the urgency to hide them somewhere even though I don’t know why. Panicked, my eyes rip around the room and rest upon the seat cushions below the big bay window. I stick them under that and rearrange the pillows so they look undisturbed. It is only then that I move to the coat box upon my desk and lift the lid, picking out my white case and hugging it to my chest. 

 

The gauze should fix the bleeding, but I will have to bathe again. Only then can I go to sleep. 

 

My master will expect me at breakfast in the morning.


	7. Breakfast

I have no alarm clock here, but my body is so accustomed to rising early that when I first open my eyes the appropriate amount of sunlight for an early hour is already shining through the gossamer curtains. Though I have slept solidly, I remain ill-rested; my slender limbs feel heavy and slow to match the resignation in my heart.

 

The first step down from my bed is the worst. The split angle of my thighs seems to tear the wound anew and if I weren’t so well-practiced at staying silent I would have screamed. Taking careful, picking footsteps in the same fashion as I eat, I gather my clothes from the dresser and take them with me to the bathroom because I cannot change clothes until I first change the gauze.

 

I wrap the bloody bandages in wadded toilet paper before I dispose of them. I have become implicitly aware of the questions that discovered evidence can raise. If what Landon says is true, and Matthias would think it a truly ugly thing to find that I had been punished in such a way, I will have to return to the market. A terrible as it was, there are worse fates that could befall me in the hands of a different master; much worse. I cannot alienate others forever. As my face grows older there also grows a danger that I will appear... normal. Ordinary, although underfed; and if that happens I could be either doomed to either linger in limbo alone until the men in dark glasses fetch me or worse yet, attract the attention of a much darker soul.

 

Landon himself could buy me. After all, he was the one who foot the bill in the first place. And then of all the places in the world for little Aure to go, not one of them would be safe. No; it is important, crucial even, that I stay here for the duration of the contract. Here I can know some semblance of safety on the days that he is gone.

 

I finish the tie on the end of my braid. Rather than sitting down at my dresser, I have remained standing. But downstairs in the dining room, clutching the book Matthias instructed me to read, I am met by an unforgiving wooden chair. There is a slight shallow in the smooth wood where I might sit, but it is still no soft affair for my bony buttocks. Wincing, I resign myself to the constant ache and can only hope it numbs while I wait for my master to join me. The clock on the wall says it is six-twenty-three.

 

By seven o’clock he hasn’t yet joined me, so I begin to read. I had thought this might happen; it was the reason I bought the novel with me in the first place. If I am to read something entirely fictional and still with no philosophical merit, I might as well do it at a time when there is little else to do. 

 

I still have no idea what structure Matthias has in mind for me and the way I spend my days. He has not spoken to me of schooling or even of a ballet regimen, though he seemed interested in the shoes when he first found me. So far he has only expressed interest in finding out about my past. I can only hope he intends to use that knowledge to think of something for the present. 

 

I am only on the first page, and I am not sure that I like this Alice character at all. She seems silly to me; a child in every aspect and not yet able to even recognise the rewards of hard reading. In fact, I find history books much easier to digest than this swirling mess of logic, for all history is simply a step-by-step series of events in chronological order. This  _ Alice in Wonderland _ has within its pages unnatural animals and delirious conversations in feats of impossible gravity.

 

Indeed I feel queasy after the first few chapters, and I mark my place and push the thing away, wincing as an involuntarily shift in my posture sends another pang of pain through me. I cannot tell if it is the mental maladies in the book or my own delirium brought about by not eating. My tongue feels dry and cracked, too; I should drink soon, but it is already eight o’clock and I fear discipline if I’m not at the dining table when Matthias does come down from his bedroom. It could be at any moment that he does. 

 

I suppose it would be best if I soldier on and just keep reading. The sooner I am through with this nauseating novel, the sooner I can pick through my master’s library in search of books with more medical matters in their pages. At most, this one is only good for assuming psychosis on the author’s part.

 

The minutes drag on just like the words in the pages, and normally where I am a fast and thorough reader I find my heart starting to hurt and my eyes wandering along the page in a daze. The chair has become hard and uncomfortable despite its craftsmanship and I begin to squirm. With barely millimetres of pages left to go I give a haggard gaze up at the clock and discover with horror that it is nearly half past ten. I have been sitting here, injured and unfed, for over four hours.

 

Where is he?

 

I’m trapped, here on this chair. I might die soon, and they will discover my skeleton here holding nothing but withered pages written with utter tripe. Instead of fascination I have found nothing but frustration in this story, and it was Matthias who made me read it. I sit there thinking of my latest chore; how to discuss this story with my master without lapsing into scathing terms, and then I hear a thunderous thudding on the stairs that makes my blood freeze.

 

Of course, he has stayed the night. It’s not proper to travel at such a late hour and though I expect he would scoff in the face of propriety; with the promise of a warm bed and liquid hospitality, Landon wouldn’t wander far from this estate until it suited him. Stricken, I twist in my chair even though it pains me and watch the entryway. He moves past my line of sight for only a moment, fully dressed with a bag in hand, before he opens the front door and walks out.

 

He hasn’t stayed for breakfast. I had been gripping the tabletop with my fingernails, quite without noticing. I stop immediately for fear of the woodwork, though naturally the mahogany hasn’t suffered anything at all.

 

A few minutes later, there is a quieter stepping on the stairs and Matthias blooms into view, not ready for the day at all but instead dressed in pyjamas and an open dressing gown in tartan print. I stare at him incredulously as he pats barefoot across the hardwood and stretches his limbs by grabbing the top of the doorframe. His hair hasn’t been brushed either, but there really has been no change from the night before in that regard.

 

“Good morning, Aure,” he says casually, and before he gets a good look at me he turns and presses a little button on a small panel in the wall that I hadn’t noticed before. “Ilan,” he speaks into the portion of perforated holes beside it, “Please bring up breakfast now. Tea for two is all we need, and I think Aure might like some orange juice.”

 

It must be the same as the phone. The interest I have in the device is still shallow compared to my indignation at being sat here without relief for the entire morning. Still glaring, I watch as he seats himself opposite me at the oval table, emitting a groan that I suppose comes with his age, though he is decades from needing a wheelchair. Only then does he open his eyes and inspect my expression properly.

 

“Are you alright, Aure? The shadows under your eyes are quite… terrible.”

 

“I expect they might be, master,” I reply icily, my gaze hardened. “It has been quite some time since I last ate.”

 

The words take a while to dawn on him; he appears to be still groggy from sleep. When they do sink into his mind he shakes himself a little, raising his eyebrows. “I suppose we did skip a meal, didn’t we?” he says with a chuckle, rubbing his cheek. “Why didn’t you just go looking for Amelia or the kitchen to ask for food yourself?”

 

My flat stare says it all for me, but I find myself wanting to use the words to drive it home anyway, as though it is an indulgence. He’s already crumpling a little, there in his own chair. I expect it is apparent just how long I’ve been waiting. 

 

“Because I was instructed to wait for you before I ate breakfast,” I respond monotonously. “…Just as I was instructed to read that book.”

 

I follow his eyes to where it lies on the table, the place so close to the end marked plainly so he can see how far I’ve gotten. The corners of his lips pull back in guilt.

 

“Oh, Aure! I didn’t mean it like that! If you were sitting here for so long, you should have just up and left until I called for you! Or at the very least moved to the parlour if you were going to read, there are sofas there.”

 

“I do as I’m told,” I reply stiffly.

 

A smaller door opens, one that I assume connects to the service corridor rather than the entryway, and a middle-aged man with an elegant face and a white chef’s smock wheels in a service cart bearing fruit and croissants, buttered toast and strips of bacon alongside little bowls of porridge. I have not met this man before, but he seems to have outdone himself for this meal and probably many more previously.

 

“…Perhaps I need to give you more lenient instructions,” Matthias says uncertainly, and he gets the words out just before Amelia bursts through the service door like a breath of fresh air, proudly bearing a silver tea tray.

 

“Good morning, mister Matthias,” she says breezily, managing to bustle over despite her slight frame not affording her much natural bustle at all. She sets him down some tea and then moves on to me. 

 

“Good morning, Aure! Did you sleep well?” she adds serenely as she sets down a small, china cup before me and pours a dark brown liquid into it, staining the white. Next to it she places a tiny pitcher of milk and a silver spoon on the saucer with some ceremony. I’ve never actually taken tea before, though I know what it is. Experimentally I pour some milk into the cup and give it a gentle stir until the colour becomes even.

 

“Good morning, Miss Amelia,” I murmur quietly as I bring the cup to my lips. It’s too hot at the moment to take more than a tiny sip. It’s not enough to get a true measure of the flavour, but it seems pleasant enough. “I slept fine, I suppose.” I lie because I don’t want to alarm her. It seems to work.

 

“That’s good,” she replies warmly. “When you have some free time this afternoon, I’ll take your measurements and we can order you some more clothes. I expect it might be nice to have some more options, and with winter around the corner you’ll need something a bit more substantial than cotton dresses.”

 

“Certainly,” I respond dully, looking down at the display of food set before me. I don’t want to eat any of it, purely because I am terrified of a bowel movement in the near future.

 

“Yes, Amelia. Order him whatever clothes he’d like; I doubt you can fit much in a single cardboard box.” Matthias murmurs gently, mimicking my despondent nature and watching with hooded eyes as she curtsies and leaves the room. Ilan follows suit once the dishes are laid out, wheeling his cart along with him.

 

I sip tea, and already as he chews his first mouthful of toast I can feel his eyes boring into me.

 

“Aren’t you going to eat, Aure?”

 

I lift my eyes and hold his gaze for a moment, slowly setting down the cup. “A little,” I admonish, looking down at the food. On a normal day, I would gladly eat the fruit. The bacon, buttered toast and croissants are an entirely different matter; I can see the oil glistening on the surface of them and it turns my stomach. “It’s really too much food for me. I don’t want to be sick.”

 

“Hm,” Matthias frowns. “I’ll speak to Ilan about preparing a smaller portion for you. But are these foods that you’ll eat.”

 

“Some of it,” I mention earnestly, picking a grape off the stem embellishing one plate. I eat it just for show. “I really would be happy with some simple oatmeal. I need to preserve my weight.”

 

“Your weight,” he repeats, and I can hear the growing incredulity in his tone.

 

“Yes.”

 

He falls silent after that, and I can hear the clock ticking on the wall in amidst the sounds of cutlery on china and chewing; mostly on my master’s part. I myself eat more like a bird than ever before; I ingest only three grapes, a strawberry, half a watermelon slice and a single bite of buttered toast. I drain my teacup completely, as well as the orange juice that was poured for me. It is not passing water that I’m afraid of.

 

Matthias does not look please at my meagre subtraction from the original serving. He strikes me as a man who is not as good at guarding his expression as I am.

 

“I’ll have Ilan prepare you some oatmeal and fruit tomorrow,” he says finally, and I can hear the warning in his tone. It is no different from the people at the market. I am expected to eat. I do not have any extra weight to afford me a time without eating. I can only pray that I heal fast enough.

 

“Yes, master.”

 

He sighs and pushes aside his plates, pulling a newspaper closer to him. “You are excused. I’ll send Amelia to fetch you when it is time to take your measurements or time for lunch; whichever comes first. For now, I expect you might benefit from some fresh air.”

 

“Yes, master,” I repeat, but with a brighter inflection. The cheer is only tone deep; I moved stoically to avoid twisting my insides. I carefully push in my chair and then proceed to the hallway, making slow work of the stairs. 

 

Paranoid, I inspect the back of my dress closely in the mirror mounted on the wall of my bedroom. There is nothing there. Woefully wishing for medicine to numb the pain, for it is a much sharper and fiercer pain than mere muscular ache, I collect my hat from my room and move back downstairs and find my own way to the rear courtyard. It is accessed by a set of large, windowed doors leading from the ground floor parlour, which take me out into a quaint old courtyard lined with daffodils. There is outdoor furniture here, fashioned out of ornate wrought iron. It is clean and well kept, but in houses with hired help that is often misleading. I doubt it has been used for years; I can hardly imagine Matthias entertaining a crowd larger than two or three.

 

I like it here. The garden has a despondent, rarely-used air to it that strikes me as a possibility for privacy. Though I am suddenly keen to press quickly beyond the paved portion of the courtyard and out onto the lawn and the cobbled pathways leading between different sections of the garden, I must move slowly to stop the wound tearing.

 

This garden seems to have plenty of flowers, though due to the season not all of them are in bloom. I expect to still be here for when spring comes, so I will see each and every one in time. Since my master has not yet discussed schooling with me, perhaps I can keep my mind sharp by learning the names of the entire flora. There is a common white rose still flowering along the central path leading out into the grounds, and I find the sight of it comforting. 

 

From my understanding, flowers are a feminine icon. I certainly find them much more agreeable as décor than that horrid little doll thing, but I still feel no confusion in regards to my gender. I have always dressed this way because these were the clothes I was given. I have known nothing else. Clothes alone seem a trifling matter to define a specimen, anyway. To be female seems to lie solely in a bright, wistful quality within the eyes and far more emotional sway than I’ve ever seen in a man. I would find such a state of being draining. I am too muted on the inside.

 

The slow speed I am taking is rendering me stoic and melancholy. With a slight huff I step off the path and veer off to the side of the grounds, across a trimmed green lawn betwixt trees. The outskirts of the grounds seem to be extremely sparse woods; the trees are scattered seemingly without order but I expect it was all still planned. The floor of this so-called forest is still immaculate lawn. If it were a real forest, it would have likely grown wild like in that pesky Alice book.

 

Eventually, I come to a fence. It is old and wrought-iron, with slender vertical bars capped with nouveau spears at the top. I can see through to the other side easily, though all there seems to be is more lawn sprinkled with trees. The distant sound of laughter pulls my attention towards a different angle, and I see tiny figures moving in the distance, dressed in bright colours.

 

Their small size is not merely a matter of perspective. They are actually children, laughing and playing with one another in a manner that is completely foreign to my own concept of a childhood. Despite this, I still instinctively register that they are much younger than me, perhaps seven years old or less. This makes them automatically unsuitable for social contact. I pull away from the fence with a frown. It was not the children that really captured my attention, anyway.

 

“A sphere?” Amelia asks curiously some time later, adjusting the measuring tape at my waist, “Whatever do you mean.”

 

“That is all I can describe it as. I don’t know the word. The children in the next estate over were kicking it around.”

 

“Kicking? Oh, then it must be a ball. A football, given the kicking,” she clucked softly, pausing to mark down my measurement on a slip of paper on my desk. “Arms up please, Aure.”

It seems that there a lot more words I don’t know than I first knew. “A football,” I repeat, piecing the words together as Miss Amelia took my chest measurement.

 

“You really don’t know these words, do you?” she asked curiously, winding up the tape measure in her pale fingers. “Not dolls nor footballs or any such words. It’s really quite curious. Perhaps you ought to read the dictionary to catch up.”

 

I lift an eyebrow, finding it ironic that the very word that seems to be the solution to my lack of linguistic knowledge is still a word unknown to me. “This ‘dictionary’,” I venture, “Would it be in the library?”

 

She laughs at that. “Gracious, yes! Every household has a dictionary, especially in mister Matthias’ collection. I expect he’ll have several volumes, though I’m not sure where. I’m not due to do the dusting in the library until next week is out.”

 

“That’s very interesting,” I say politely, keeping my tone neutral. “Thankyou, Miss Amelia. I will come down to the dining room for lunch once I have washed my face and hands.”

 

“Yes Aure.”

 

I watch her gather up the tape, pencil and paper and breeze out of my bedroom. I feel conspiratorial.

 

My name is Aure, and I am going to find a dictionary.

 


	8. Seeking Knowledge

I chose a night to do it when Landon came to stay again, for it quickly became taken for granted by both Matthias and the rest of the staff that when that man set foot in the manor, I would vanish into thin air. I had made no secret of my contempt for him, it was apparent in almost everything I did. I refused to answer his questions, I did not greet him when he entered the room and would immediately rise to leave it when he did, staring apprehensively all the way.

 

I became a spectre in this household, very good at drifting silently through corridors and I knew almost all of the places to hide. There are secret spaces behind curtains, and furniture that only I am small enough to hide behind. I am very good at being quiet.

 

Matthias, wincing slightly under the social strain and torn between exerting authority and keeping the peace, seemed to chalk my behaviour up to my budding adolescence and lied to his friend. He said I was increasingly antisocial as of late, and I suppose it was true. Where I had been conversational before I was now resentfully silent because of the day he made he wait on that awful chair. It took over a week for the wound to heal to a state where my body would not remember the blade driving into me upon sitting.

 

It was a scheme I came up with while resting in bed. Consumed in his own activities, still without ordering me to take up my own, Matthias leaves me to my own devices for the greater part of the day. Left like this in my condition, I took the chance to recuperate without raising too much scrutiny. My master remains ignorant about what happened.

 

Landon did not press the issue either. Both men indulged each other completely in the delusion that I was a surly young man, both avoiding the same truth for different reasons. One a villain of aggression and the other of ignorance, they would both drink themselves into a stupor and eventually shamble to Matthias’ bedroom, stinking of wine.

 

I hate alcohol. It turns men into swine. I have never missed the puritan values of my first master more.

 

There is one sole benefit of the wretched drink, and it mirrors its ugliest quality; it makes men slow and stupid. This is why I chose such a night to make my raid upon the library, when the help were in bed and Matthias had his hands full with Landon. Even if I were to get caught, even if the worst possible scenario were to happen; I would still get away with it. I am no longer forbidden to touch other books in the library, for I am a diligent student capable of finishing even the most difficult of reading. I am a good boy.

 

After I finished that awful  _ Alice _ book and made no hesitation in announcing my contempt for its confusing content when I was asked, I was met with a concerned furrow in a middle-aged brow and little else. The next day he gave me another; a whole collection of shorter stories with the authors stamp of “GRIMM”. I haven’t touched it yet. It can stay there on my desk for a good while yet, for all I care.

 

What I want is a dictionary.

 

Smitten by my old-fashioned tastes, Miss Amelia has somehow procured an old candle lantern for my bedside table, exactly as the one I had at my former household. It casts the shadowy hall in flickering tones of yellow and orange as I creep along antique carpet in my socks. I turn the ornate handle on the heavy door slowly, so it doesn’t make a sound.

 

Sneaking is a lot like upper body work in ballet. It needs to be slow, deliberate; fluid. I find myself inclining my head elegantly as I step through the door as though I am part of some kind of choreography. I walk down the rows, trailing thing fingers lightly over spines as I try to spy the word ‘DICTIONARY’ in the candlelight. I move over to where the largest and heaviest tomes are shelved along the back wall and that is when I hear a door open outside, followed by heavy footsteps towards the library door. It creaks when it is opened without care.

 

I look down my nose and delicately blow out the candle in its glass prison, then press my handle over the rim of the lantern to stop the scent of the smoke escaping. The heat burns into my palm, but I stay silent and serene there in the darkness.

 

“I know you’re here,” a deep voice announces. 

 

I don’t make a sound.

 

“You think you’re so much better than me?” It’s Landon, his polished accent all over his words as he walks further into the room. I see his dark shadow looming on the ceiling, cast by the light he turned on in the corridor. I drop to a crouch.

 

I don’t want to leave without the dictionary, but on the same note I don’t want him to touch me again. I might be sick if he does, and vomit would be difficult to explain to the maid.

 

“Matthias says you’ve got an unhealthy interest in medicine,” he chuckles, his shoulder knocking into the shelving a few rows down. He’s drunk. “Is it medicine or anatomy, boy? Are you trying to learn how to be a whore?”

 

He could be babbling to ghosts, for all he knows. He finds a light switch and turns it on, plunging the room into light. My eyes twinge as they adjust to the sudden change and I shrink behind a shelf while I regain my sight.

 

“I could get it for you, you know; a big damn book full of medicine. I could get you a lot of things if you weren’t such an arrogant little prick.”

 

Arrogant. I already know what that word means. It does nothing to knock my cold contempt off centre as I rise up and tip toe towards the wall. I have no desire to work with Landon, no desire at all to ever feel his meaty hands upon my skin again though I know he will try and keep trying. My ability to elude him only spurs him on more.

 

I see it. A solid, heavy slab bound in leather nestled next to an Atlas on the far wall. I study it for a moment, and set the lantern down on the rug. It will need to be a mad dash, for the moment he hears me take it from the shelf he has the chance to head me off at the door and I am not strong enough to push past him. But I am fast.

 

“Why won’t you just learn to play the game…”

 

With delicate fingertips I pluck at the books edge to pull it from the friction pinning it there on the shelf and then I slide it out and hug it to my chest. The reaction is immediate; melancholy, searching footsteps become purposeful and loud and they head towards me as my heart leaps and I shoot towards the library door. If he hadn’t left it open, I wouldn’t have made it. He was stupid to forget a thing like that. Once I am on the straight stretch of corridor to my room there is no stopping me. My sprinting is a rapid patter lost in the din of my giant pursuer.

 

When I whirl around the shut the door I catch a fleeting glimpse of a furious, flushed face thundering down the corridor. He’s already stopping himself, not in accepted defeat but in sudden realisation that he was making so much noise in the middle of the night. I smile as I turn the lock in my door, hearing a sleepy scuffle beyond it as Matthias has woken up.

 

“Landon?” He calls sleepily, “What on earth are you doing?”

 

“Looking for wine.” He doesn’t miss a beat when answering but his tone is dark and broody. “I can’t sleep a damn wink.”

 

“There’s some left in the study…”

 

I slowly catch my own breath and move away from the polished wood, sliding the dictionary underneath my bed. There would be no real repercussions if I was caught with it, but I am becoming a private person. I don’t want to explain my actions to my master. I don’t want him knowing anything at all.

 

“Are you still feeling sick?”

 

My master has been making an effort as of late to keep a closer eye on me, especially at mealtimes. As Landon never, ever stays for breakfast, he simply leaves him sleeping and comes down to join me at the table at the mutual hour of 8 o’clock.

 

He is under the impression I have been ill. There is another word for that, and it is to have a  _ virus _ . He believes the  _ symptoms _ include nausea and drowsiness. I have been doing a lot of reading.

 

“I feel a little better. I will get some more sunshine today,” I answer quietly, sipping at my juice. My eyes slide to the foot of the doorway to the foyer. There waiting for me is my newest possession: a soccer ball, patches of gleaming white vinyl stitched together in a perfect sphere. He follows my gaze with his own brand of aristocratic melancholy, and sighs.

 

“You know, Aure… of all the things I expected you to ask for, I didn’t think it would be a ball,” he muses aloud.

 

I set down my silver spoon beside a small, half-finished bowl of oatmeal. “What did you expect me to ask for, master?” I reply cordially.

 

He frowns. “You can call me Matthias, you know that,” he sighs heavily. “I don’t know… a record player, more shoes, or a new leotard? I haven’t seen you dance once since you arrived here.”

 

“Well, of course,” I admonish. “Your household does not contain a studio suitable for ballet.”

 

“I didn’t know you needed a studio,” he concedes with a trademark frown, cradling his coffee cup in his hands. “I thought you would ask for anything you needed.”

 

“I assumed you were organising it when you had the time. It is not my place to question your methods, Mister Matthias. You never told me to dance, so I did not.” 

 

“Well, do you even  _ want _ to?” he asked helplessly, coming to a loose end.

 

I look away with hooded eyes, visions of bleeding blisters and peeling skin being cut away from my toes with tiny scissors dancing before my eyes. I remember agonising cramps and split toe nails, calluses, and the smell of disinfectant.

 

_ Stop shaking _

 

“Well, Aure?” he presses, and I snap my attention back to him with wide eyes. I’ve never drifted off like that before. “Do you even like dancing?”

 

“I don’t know,” I reply with well-practiced uncertainty, looking away as I brush a lock of hair behind my ear. “I did it because I was told.”

 

“Aure, look at me.” Matthias says suddenly, and though he doesn’t move from the table his voice suddenly carries an authority that doesn’t fit my idea of him. I frown and squirm a little in my seat, not wanting to do it. I hate when he gets like this. “Aure.”

 

Squinting, I lift my head. He’s blurry at such a distance and I have to open my eyes properly and face him, his expression searching mine keenly for some kind of hidden sign, something he can use to confirm his suspicions, I imagine. Once the discomfort fades, defiance builds and I stare back at him with guarded resolve, for what could he possibly find? My mask is porcelain.

 

“Did you really do it just because you were told?” he asks, and his tone is gentler now. His very soul is gentle, right in the middle of it. My master is not an inherently bad man. He is just naïve. Weak.

 

“I do everything I am told,” I murmur softly, sliding back my chair. I can dance with words just as well as I can dance  _ en pointe _ . I move over to the door and pick up the ball.

 

“Aure.” 

 

I stop and turn my head, listening to him in profile. He sighs at this automatic obedience. 

 

“…Never mind, just go. I’d like you to do some more reading of my latest draft after lunch time, if it’s finished. If not, you can read some fairytales.”

 

“Yes, master.”

 

I leave and go out into the garden, where it is peaceful and I am happy because I am alone. It is better to go out straight after breakfast, because later in the day Matthias is in his study and he may be watching from the window; a surreptitious silhouette or a flicker in the curtains.  I hate the idea of being watched without my knowledge, so I go out as far as possible into the grounds, beyond the grouped garden beds and to the vast expanses of lawn lined by trees.

 

Playing with this ball provides a quiet form of introspection. It is also a good form of exercise, far less tense than ballet. If I kick it I can chase it, and I have also slowly become quite good at kicking it consecutively up into the air. I have not yet thought of anything else to do with it when I am on my own. I went back to spy upon the children next door one day for more ideas, but all they did was kick it amongst them and sometimes into an arch. I have no interest in team sports.

 

I don’t like how Landon attempted to make a deal with me two nights ago. I never said a word to him during his offer and yet somehow I still feel dirty. He is still perplexing to me sometimes; there are words that he uses that aren’t even in the dictionary. I have yet to find a definition in the dictionary that explains what he did to me. I need more than mere definitions; I need an article of some kind. I have no idea where I’ll ever find one, not even in Matthias’ library.

 

I swing my foot back and kick the ball as hard as I can, and after a satisfying  _ thunk _ it sails over the lawn and beyond the next row of trees. I jog after it, braid swinging behind me.

 

Last night was too close. Once bargaining fails him, he will become aggressive again. The most dangerous possibility is the chance that he may come after me when he hasn’t been drinking. He is an oaf, but he is smart when he is sober. My advantage, now that I know he desires to trap me, is that alcohol makes him slow. If I lost that, he would be free to attack me again. I can only hope that he needs the alcohol to muster up the immorality and disregard for Matthias to do what he desires.

 

I have to hope that he is a coward. I kick the ball again.

 

At the very end of the grounds, barred by a high fence and near one of the several gardener sheds scattered throughout the property there is a large willow tree. Dotted beside it with exactly even spacing are three little gravestones with no names marked. They vary in height and design, and though weathered and without flowers they are kept clean. I wonder if they have members of Matthias’ family laid beneath them.

 

It is here, sitting between the twisting roots of this tree that I feel the most comfortable. I have even dozed off here on more than one occasion, when I was still healing and the terribly small amounts of food I was eating took their toll on me by way of fatigue.

 

I place the ball on a fork in the roots and take my place on a tuft of grass. Landon will have to be dealt with eventually. I do still occasionally get nausea when I remember that rancid breath in my ear. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean back against the trunk.

 

Try as might, I can’t think of a way to do it. I don’t know enough; I’m too young. And what would Matthias say if I did? I am stuck here. What I need is a way to make Landon disgusted by me, and to do so without harming my own future.

 

He seems to hate it when I speak to him as though I am an adult. Perhaps further education is in order. And there is only one man who can help me with that.

 

“I am bored,” I announce it to my master, appearing at his office door after he has taken lunch. There is a plate there on the desk in amongst scattered papers with crumbs on it. I am only allowed in here when he is present and has invited me, so I hover at the door frame.

 

It’s not normal for me to approach him like this; normally he has to send Miss Amelia to seek me out or set an appointment in advance during breakfast. He stops typing on the old-fashioned typewriter he has set up on his desk and swivels in his chair, adjusting the reading glasses upon his nose.

 

“What do you mean, you’re bored? You have the ball and the Brothers Grimm book I gave you,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. He means to coddle me, but he knows what is coming.

 

“I am not interested in fairy tales. I want to know about medicine, and biology.”

 

He sighs wearily. “Again with this, Aure? A boy your age shouldn’t be interested in such things.”

 

“I am twelve.” I reply succinctly.

 

“Exactly! Normal twelve year olds don’t care about these things. If you knew any, you’d understand.”

 

“Then I suppose I am not normal,” I say frostily, and I can tell from his expression that he is affected by guilt. 

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Aure,” he murmurs uneasily, hunching forward in his chair before he stands up completely with a huff. He moves over to a cabinet by yet another bookshelf and opens it up; pulling a book from it that is held closed by a wound string binding. I can tell my looking at the sides of the pages that the paper is lined. He hands it to me along with a pen.

 

“If you’re so bored, you can try your hand at writing. If you don’t like to create fiction, then perhaps you can write a journal,” he lectures, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As for the medical book… we’ll see. I have no idea where one would even get such a thing. I’d need to get a catalogue first.”

 

I hug the journal to my chest and let my lips show a hint of a smile. “Yes, Matthias,” I respond brightly.

 

He seems a little soothed but he is still stressed, and he waves me away. He did not finish his latest draft today, and his publisher is bothering him with increasing intensity. He tells me to check in with him tomorrow to read it over if he is done, and I will, because I do as I am told.

 

I am a good boy.


	9. Ageing

Many months have passed.

 

I am growing older. It is a slow and gradual process, but I see it in the mirror every day. I see it in the shadows under my eyes, and the curve of my lips. There is a growing maturity there that is so slowly catching up with the knowledge in my eyes and I know that he hates it. It makes me smile.

 

Landon continues to haunt my existence here in Matthias’s household. Sometimes he will stay away for weeks on end; at other times, he will visit thrice or more within the same week, his imposing nature forcing all of us to suffer the onslaught of his company. I asked Matthias about him, just once. Naturally it was over breakfast.

 

“Master,” I began.

 

“Matthias.” The corrections are swift and simple now. He barely bats an eyelid, more focused on buttering his toast.

 

“Matthias,” I start again, setting aside my spoon. “Do you even enjoy Landon’s company?”

 

The gentle scraping of silverware upon bread stopped and his lips tightened. “You shouldn’t ask things like that, Aure,” he says gravely. “It isn’t polite.”

 

It is strange, the way our relationship has bloomed. My master seems perfectly content to discuss my thoughts and feelings with a passionate intensity. He says I perceive the world differently because I grew up in an isolated environment without something he refers to as  _ media pollution _ . He says my personality would make an excellent foundation for a character in one of his novels but he isn’t quite sure what the role of such a character should be..

 

He does not like to be asked about his own thoughts and feelings.

 

“Landon is not polite,” I remark. I am losing patience with the incongruence of expectations set for different people in this house. Incongruence, meaning, that the expectations are not the same. I have since read the dictionary cover to cover. I am wiser for it.

 

“Landon has done a lot for me,” he blurts, and I watch as he takes a moment to steel himself. “Landon has done a lot for my family and I. He may not be the best company, but I owe him this much.”

 

_ How much? _

 

I fall silent as my mind bubbles into the static and malice, and I am completely aware that I could utter those words and start the perilous descent into a series of exchanges that would make Matthias know what his negligence has done.

 

There is a word in the dictionary, and it is rape. It is defined as a form of sexual assault. At the time I knew the meaning of the latter word, but not the former. To me, the word ‘sex’ was simply a synonym for gender. I had no knowledge of carnal acts until Matthias, after months of my repeated requests and listless moping, purchased a set of human biology textbooks that would be at home in a secondary school.

 

“You can conduct your own lessons,” he said tersely, standing at the threshold of his office as though it needed guarding. “But I expect you to allot appropriate amounts of time for your writing and dancing.”

 

“Yes, master.”

 

In a rare fit of gumption, Matthias had come to me one day and presented me with a pair of Blochs, sized to match my current shoes. He had paid renovators to fit one of the smaller guest bedrooms with hardwood and mirrors during the coming weekend. I was told to break in the shoes, so I did. I now dance for just an hour or two, every day. The pain is not as bad as I remember, but I fear there has been lasting damage to my feet from my childhood.

 

The metatarsal bones in the foot are not meant to be put under such strain at such a young stage of development. I have been reading. I will never be a great nor long-lived ballerina, but it will be enough to satisfy Matthias’ interest in the art. His gaze is free of the technically aware criticism that I used to be plagued with. Even if I make a mistake, he does not notice. He doesn’t notice much at all, as long as I keep eating regularly.

 

When boys and girls reach a certain age, they enter a transition called puberty. This is when the body ripens into adulthood, and becomes suitable for sexual activity that leads to reproduction of the species, though it is often enjoyed without procreation. The details of the acts are rather disgusting to me, but I can tolerate the idea of them if I take a clinical approach.

 

This activity is primarily between men and women, but individuals of the same gender may participate in an act of homosexuality. This word, in the same way heterosexuality takes it root word from the Greek prefix  _ heteros _ , meaning ‘different’, uses the prefix  _ homos _ , meaning ‘same’; congruent, even. But no matter what match of gender, this  _ sex _ takes place between two adults who agree to it. To have sex without one party agreeing to it is rape. To force a child to participate is a mental and sexual deviancy; a disease of the mind. 

 

Landon is a paedophile, and a rapist. This is why the mere passing of time frustrates him; why each passing day is another insult to him. As I age more and more, I approach the outskirts of his deviancy, soon to be no longer suitable for a paedophile at all.

 

It has been almost a year since that night, and the memory of it still burns within me like a bitter, rotting wound. And as the estimate of my fourteenth birthday approaches, he has been trying with increasing fervour to claim me one last time. I sleep with a chair propped under the door handle.

 

Worst of all is the approach he has taken in the most recent month; as if he might make me jealous of his repulsive actions. To my internal, writhing horror, he arrived at the house one day with a boy. A frail young thing with scars on the insides of his elbows, he stared at me with moist eyes partially shrouded by a veil of inky black hair. The grin he gave me was lop-sided as Landon beamed and introduced him as Cale.   
  
His lips were stained with cherry balm, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of a whore.

 

“You boys go on and play now; we have men’s business to discuss.”

 

The thought of being touched by this small, sexualised creature that had been tainted by Landon’s hands made my skin crawl and when he approached me and reached out with his spindly arms I swatted them away with the thick notebook I clutched to my chest. But he clung to the space around me like some invisible tether held him there, and although it had been Landon who issued the order, Matthias had nodded awkwardly, his eyebrows contorted with apology as he slowly followed his friend up the stairs. I caught traces of their muttering as they left us alone.

 

“Really Landon, where did you find him? He looks like he came off the street…”

 

“ _ And _ ?”

 

“… just worried… bad impression, that’s all…”

 

It would seem that Landon’s prestigious company has not been doing so well as of late, if he has resorted to purchasing needle-marked goods. A more ominous assumption would be that he had simply bought something cheap because he intended to throw it away soon.

 

Indeed, Cale seemed to be at least partially under the influence of some kind of opiate, or perhaps a depressant. A hazy and hooded-eyed youth, he was slow to cotton onto information and was too easily distracted to make a good companion. Instead of bothering to converse with him, I simply sat under the willow tree and let him kick the ball around on the grass nearby. After a while he would give up and lie on the grass near my feet, showing his teeth to the sky.

 

And so it was like this as time rolled on. I had taken well to the act of writing; I found it soothing or at the very least reflective. At first I had used my notebook to record a glossary of anything vaguely medical I had found in the dictionary. When Matthias finally remembered to check on my progress, he was not pleased. He issued me with another and told me to start again, writing something with creative or reflective merit.

 

So I began to record my life, from the earliest point I could remember. It was structured at first, but I found it therapeutic to let thoughts and feelings spill onto the pages and it soon became a tangled mess in terms of a timeline of events. I don’t mind terribly; if Matthias ever asks to check it I simply say it is not ready. My life doesn’t feel very structured any more, anyway. I take lessons and ballet when I please, and every day I face the chance of an unpredicted interruption, or some other new request that has never happened before. Routine is dead.

 

I am amazed how anyone can live like this, but then again, perhaps I am the freak; it is not the human condition to accept a life with so little variety so easily. I was made docile by an emotional and physical chokehold. I was made compliant by an awareness of my own social status, with nothing to compare it to as they kept me in the dark. They. These men who made me, they are bad men.

 

“Hey Aure, whatcha not-sorry about?” 

 

A dark shape comes across my blurred vision of the grass and I startle, blinking and bringing the world into focus. I find Cale there, his big brown eyes boring into mine with an unusual brightness as he dips his head down towards my lap in an indicative gesture.

 

My own eyes snap down to the notebook there and I see my neat writing change into a scrawl as it progresses down the page.

 

_ and I’m not sorry I’m not sorry I’m not sorry Im not sorry Im not sor ry Imnot sorry Im nol- sorry imnot sorry not _

 

A tremor runs through me, and I jerk the pencil away from the paper as though it may be possessed, dragging the lead across it and causing the tip to snap off. I shut the whole book and latch it, affronted.

 

This is not the first time this has happened. I have often begun to lose track of time, or drift into a trance wherein my awareness of what I should be doing slips and stumbles. I feel my face flush and I hug the book to my chest as though it might shield me.

 

“It’s none of your business,” I snap, “I told you never to read this!”

 

He tilts his head to the side, a pink tongue lolling in the corner of his painted lips. “You were tripping real bad,” he sniggers softly. Where he leans on all fours I can see down the hollow of the baggy pink singlet he wears to the fly of his denim shorts, and I flinch and look away with a grimace. I hate the way he dresses; it is not the feminine clothing that irks me, for here I still sit in yet another conservative cotton dress, but the obscene hue of the things that are bought for him, the way they expose his flesh at every available opportunity. It is disgusting.

 

“You should… get some. You know, you could just… ask him to fuck you,” he smiles hazily and rolls back onto the grass. 

 

_ I could get you a lot of things _

 

_ Cale  _ is disgusting. I try to reason with the matter, for arguably it is bad men that made him, too, but the fact remains. He makes me horribly uncomfortable because I could have turned into a creature something like him. I could have become Landon’s sex toy; a willing whore or if not willing, then too drunk or otherwise intoxicated to grasp the world around me.

 

_ You could play nicely _

 

“Shut up,” I say, but my voice is dry and hollow. I gather up my things and head back towards the house, vexed, and he follows like a lap dog. Cale’s only comfort in life is that he is too soft in the mind now to realise just how horrible his world is. It is a comfort to me that he does not have the same malice I do; that he could never formulate the words in his mind that could pierce me like a dagger.

 

Sometimes, late at night I wake up after a nightmare where those eyes are replaced with my own and those cherry lips speak harsh truths that shoot straight to my core. It is great relief when he leaves my side and goes back to sticking next to Landon. In stark contrast, I sit rigidly next tot Matthias at a respectful distance. I am the only person at the dinner table who does not drink. I eat enough to fill half my stomach. I keep my contribution to the conversation to a minimum. I excuse myself and go to bed when Cale is drunk enough to start pawing at Landon’s suited sides.

 

I feel cold and dead on the inside.


	10. Violation

Chapter Ten

 

“Are you familiar with  _ Swan Lake _ ?”

  
  
“I am familiar with Tchaikovsky,” I correct, my icy blue eyes never wavering from the arch of my arm in the mirror; the rhythmic little kick of one pointed toe as I travel across the hardwood in little foot-long jumps.  I am familiar with a lot of music; the rise and swells, the roar of crescendos and the patter of a gentle melodious interlude between these waves.

 

Matthias sits on a chair in the corner, facing away from the mirror with his hands folded politely in his lap. I have his full attention over the music set to one-third volume on the record player.

  
  
“How is that different?” he asks curiously, his upper body tilting as he follows my slow, waltz-like spin with his mind as well as his eyes

.

I pause in my arabesque, lowering my stocking-clad legs down to join its twin. “I have never learned any of the stories nor choreography behind these pieces. I simply know that this is the collection of compositions used for Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake _. _ ”

  
  
Once I have inform Matthias of this, I return back to traversing the room in a looping circle, jumping and I go with one arm curve high above my head. The other rests of my bony hip but with no less grace, creating a proud gesture. I am impressed by myself; at how high I can jump now that I am growing older and my legs are getting stronger.

 

Less practice has not made me worse, it has made me better; I no longer fear giving movement all of my effort because it will only be for a short while. Ballet is no longer a gauntlet I must endure for hours.

  
  
“What is the point of ballet if you don’t learn any performances?” My master quizzes, his brow furrowing. He is so wrapped up in the creative arts that he lacks discipline. I see it in his repeated failure to meet the deadlines for chapters that his editor sets him.

 

“The point is a control of the human form,” I say softly, twirling on my toes. “It is a mastery of movement.” My visage stays fixed in the mirror, only snapping around to join the movement of the rest of my body at the last possible moment. It stops me from getting dizzy, and I wonder how long I can keep it up. Continuous muscle use causes a build-up of lactic acid in the tissue, which leads to cramps and pain. I take in a deep breath before I land to rest on my heels.

 

“It certainly is a controlled movement,” he agrees lightly, bringing his hand up to his chin as he contemplates this. “It is a shame you have no interest in the choreography. Cinderella is a very popular ballet, you know. When I was a boy I saw a rendition of Little Red Riding Hood, too. It was captivating.”

 

“You know I don’t care much for those tales,” I reply evenly, causing him to sigh. My thin fingers curve around the polished bar bolted horizontally to the wall and I turn my feet out and stretch backwards until my front feels as taut as a piano wire.

 

“But you have read them,” Matthias presses expectantly. I certainly have. I finished that book just as I was told to do. 

 

“They are cautionary tales for children. I have never needed whimsy nor horror to teach me not to trust strangers or disobey instructions; I have simply done as I have been told,” I comment tersely, sweeping upwards and changing my arms at the bar. My view shifts to the white ceiling once more and I hear his chair scrape slightly as he rises to his feet.

 

“What do you think about Little Red Riding Hood?”

 

“It is an odd tale,” I begin, treating my words with careful application. “Lately I have thought that with some of the symbolism present; it could be used in retrospect to represent either view of the Socialist and Capitalist feud, though the factions didn’t exist when it was written.”

 

“Hrm.”

 

“Of course, this could all just be a preoccupation with the colour red.” I add neatly.

 

“I think I’ve crafted the wording for my next paragraph,” he announces suddenly, and the light in his voice is genuine. I turn my head to regard him with only mild surprise. It is not a rare occurrence for Matthias to suddenly drop everything and skulk away to the sanctuary of his office; his ability to write comes in fits and starts.

  
  
“Very well, master,” I agree, watching him as he goes. He doesn’t correct me when he is distracted like this. I stretch a moment longer and then return to an upright position, taking a moment to let the circulation return to normal in my head. I let a slight smile sneak upon my lips.

 

My name is Aure, and I have become socially manipulative. I have been hoping that Matthias would seal himself away in his study for quite some time now. His latest works, a trivial collection of retrospectives that the beatniks are just waiting to snap up, are politically charged to suit the times. I have been picking moments to bring up the Reds all day. 

 

I have done this because I need a time to myself outside of the afternoon and evening hours during which there is a risk Landon and his plaything may visit. Cale constantly lets the most crude and terrible things slip from his lips and as such he is not to be trusted with discretion.

 

Matthias was in my room yesterday. Apparently his entitlement to go wherever he pleased within his own manor was something forgotten to him until a so-called friend had reminded him of it. I had been outside with the ball, but the time to change for ballet was nearing so I had put it away and climbed the stairs. I stopped to wash my face in the bathroom basin as I always did before proceeding to my bedroom when I noticed that the door was open.

 

I do not like open doors. If I could lock mine shut from the outside I would, but I have no right to and it would also disrupt Miss Amelia’s cleaning duties. At first, I thought it was her, but she would leave it wide open, not lazily ajar. I knew it could not be Landon, for Cale had not come calling for me in the garden. So when I reached the threshold I was barely surprised at all to find my master there, sitting on the cushioned seat set into the bay window with my notebook on his lap.

 

“Matthias,” I said gravely. “What are you doing?”

 

“I am reading the beginning of your work,” he replied simply, as though commenting on the weather. I dimly became aware of a quite screeching sound in my ears as I recalled not only what lay underneath the spot he now sat, but also what lay in wait within those pages. There was no telling what I may have let slip during one of my more detached moments. A revelation of any kind could be catastrophic.

 

“It is not yet ready for review.”

 

“You should always revise one chapter before moving onto the second,” he lectures, leafing through the pages at a leisurely pace.

  
  
“It is not split into chapters,” I murmur hoarsely, and the screeching is growing louder, mixed with static.   
  


“It’s quite good. I’m intrigued so far, I had no idea you grew up in such puritan surrou-  _ Aure! _ ”

  
  
He cried out in surprise when I yanked the notebook from his hands, my pale eyes wide and livid. “It is not yet ready for review,” I said icily, clutching it to my chest. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. He came so close, so perilously close to a page that may have held words he wouldn’t ever want to see.

  
  
_ I’m not sorry _

 

“How dare you read this without my permission,” I murmur coldly, stepping backward. It is the first time in my life I have exercised authority over someone older than myself; my master, no less. By rights, I could be killed for this, for my life is as much his property as this notebook. But then I remember the contract and I give a hollow huff of laughter. I am not property; I am simply a commodity on loan.

  
  
“Give that back,” he says tersely, holding out his palm with an affronted glare. “I want to read it.”

  
  
“You may see it when it is ready,” I snap back defiantly, but I am already crumpling on the inside. It will never be ready. It needs to be destroyed; burned in a bucket like those papers the butler took care of, years ago.   
  


 

“Then I expect you to finish it!” he barked, worked up into a temper as he stormed out of the room. He looked as if, for only the briefest moment, he might hit me and take it back by force. I’ve seen that spark of anger burn brighter in the eyes of many men. It is a flame fuelled by the outrage of not having something that they want. These men are hollow and demanding. These men are not to be trusted.

 

Even Matthias has one of these creatures inside him; indecisive, gentle Matthias and his airy intellectual ideals. He is so detached from his surroundings sometimes that it seems like he has simply wrapped himself in his own world to substitute but oh, we are all guilty of that.

 

Right now, still clad in my white leotard, I stare down at my book where I have placed it on my bed covers. The whole thing is dangerous, but it needs to be taken care of piece by piece. I know first hand that attempting to destroy entire books at once is a slow process that is easily interrupted. 

  
  
I move to my drawers and retrieve my white medical case, and the razor blades within that I use to cut the dead skin from my feet. They are used less often now, but useful nonetheless. I skim through the pages and find sections that need to be dealt with first.

  
  
_ his meaty hands around my hips _

  
  
I slice out four or five pages at a time, setting them aside in little batches.

  
  
_ my weight upon his chest proved effective _

 

I don’t know what I’ll do with them yet.

 

_ when I heard the scream, I could not stop smiling _

 

All I know is that I important. It is important that Matthias does not read these pages because he is not strong enough.

  
  
_ it is dark and I can’t get out it is dark and I can’t breathe _

 

He is a weak man. He is a weak man in the same way that Landon is a coward.

  
  
I move swiftly and smoothly, shoving the leather-bound book under my pillow. I put once section under the cushions at the window where the panties lie in a cracked scab. I hide another page in between my text books; another in the white coat box in my closet.    


 

Experimentally, I take two pages and I tear them into tiny little pieces, so small and jagged that it would takes hours to piece the bits back together again like a jigsaw puzzle. I shuffle them up and shove them into the wastepaper basket by my desk, laying a tissue on top so they don’t immediately catch the eye.

 

It will be a slow process to get rid of the rest. I can’t throw out enough to arouse Miss Amelia’s suspicions, for it she thinks I am having a tough time of my assignments she will voice her concerns to Matthias. He will know what ripped written paper means, and he will come for me. I can’t trust anyone. I need to destroy everything. I was demented to create them in the first place.

  
  
I realise I have been standing in the same place for seven minutes or more, staring at space as I sway, and I flinch then set about undressing. I need to wash before dinner. I need to get measured for a new dress. I need to do a lot of things; the razor blades left out on my desk only add to the clutter of books and papers there. I put the white case on top of them, feeling too harassed and off-centre to put them away them right now.

  
  
Right now I need to be clean again. I am growing haphazard. This has to be fixed on my skin before I can focus on my room.


	11. Grave Mistakes

“Good morning, Aure.”

 

Oatmeal. Even oatmeal is beginning to make me feel as if I might throw up. I’ve been staring at it pensively for the last fifteen minutes, watching it get cold as I wait for Matthias to join me. I swear I can begin to see it break down on a molecular level, hardening into a craggy scab laced with lactose and a hint of honey.

 

“Aure,” he presses again, studying me quizzically as he sits down at the opposite end of the table and puts one hand on his newspaper.

 

“Good morning, Matthias,” I respond in a hollow tone, moving my eyes up to meet him but not my face. My muscles should be moving now; my arm should extend to grab the spoon but they do nothing. My nervous system is sending electronic pulses that aren’t being heard. Paralysis.

 

“Are you feeling well?” he asks carefully, leaving the paper on the table for the time being.

 

“Why?” My eyes fix to his again, wide and cautious. Why would he ask that? “Do I seem ill?”

 

He stares at me for a long, hard moment and I feel my heart beating hard against its porcelain cage. My pulse throbs in my temples and underneath the table my desire to leave manifests itself in a panicked twitching of the toes while the rest of me is frozen.

 

“Not especially, I suppose,” he admits after another pause for scrutiny. He sighs and picks up the newspaper, opening it up and creating a monochrome veil between us. “Come to the study later this afternoon. I need you to read over some alternate paragraphs for me.”

 

I slip out of my chair silently, feeling as light as a bag of bones. The words seem to hang as a threat in the air; he has been pushing me to proof read because he wants me to finish the first draft of my journal.

 

“Aure,” he says again, looking over the top of his shield but I’ve already gone; meal untouched. Back in the bathroom with the white case in my hand I realise that I went down to breakfast without brushing my hair or braiding it. The pale blonde tresses hand around my gaunt face in tangles and my adrenaline spikes. I lock myself in there and I don’t come out until every strand is immaculate, and my feet are cut clean and raw and wrapped in bleached-white bandages. 

 

Each step hurts, but it is reassuring. I can at least take control of this. I can’t afford to make any more mistakes like this. It is entirely normal for Matthias to roll down to breakfast dishevelled and wrapped in a dressing gown, but I am well-presented at all times.

 

It started with little things. One day, I went to the dance studio not with my Blochs in hand, but a page of the journal clenched tightly in my fist. On another day, I was fifteen minutes late for lunch because I had not set my alarm when I began to study my textbooks at my desk. In the evening I planned to undress and put on my nightgown and instead found myself in a leotard. I am becoming unravelled. 

 

I can’t use the journal to set my mind straight any more; it is too dangerous to create any more evidence that Matthias might find. And yet, I can’t bring myself to destroy it, for what if I myself forget? This knowledge is important, as important as any textbook on medical matters. If the facts and events blur in mind I will find them unusable, and what will happen to me then? How will I know how to act towards these men and their intentions? What if-

 

“Aure.”

 

I jerk, swivelling on a bruised heel and turning my pale face to the door. I’m in the library. There are papers in my hand. Matthias is standing there under the archway, his eyes oddly stern behind his bookish glasses.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

I freeze, hugging my ravaged journal to my chest. There is a phrase in the English language known as ‘hidden in plain sight’. It is the phenomenon where something that needs to be hidden is not hidden at all, merely put in a place in the open where it would not be noticed. I had thought, what would one more spine be, in amongst stacks of rows of tomes? He would never notice it here and it would take the thing away from my room where it vexes me like a beating heart beneath the floorboards.   
  
I must have thought that. I don’t quite remember walking down the hall.

 

“Aure, answer me.”

 

I don’t have enough time.

 

“I’m…” I falter. “I was… researching.” My words earn a squint from him, the wrinkles just beginning to form around his eyes suddenly pronounced.

 

“What could you possibly be researching in here? You keep your textbooks in your room, and I know you’ve read the dictionary cover to cover,” he frowns, entering the library and walking towards me. I shrink backwards, my thin body caving in on itself and curling around the journal.

 

“Don’t touch me,” I splutter quietly, because it is all I can think to say.

 

He freezes, his hand hovering in mid air as confusion and concern fills his face. “…Aure, you’re not well,” he begins, lowering the hand and looking down at me from his superior height. His lips twist in a grimace as he stares at the book in my clutches. “I think perhaps it was a bad idea to give you that. A boy your age should be living, not reflecting.”

 

_ No _ .

 

I am not fooled by his calm rationalisations. He means to take it from me. Panic leaps through my heart and I shoot past him, out the door and back down the hall to the sanctuary of my room, but it is not like the last time. Sober and much spryer than Landon ever was, he swears and chases me with thundering footsteps, and his polished shoe wedges in the door before I can slam it and prop a chair under the handle.

 

“Aure!” he yells, calloused but aristocratic hands clawing through the gap he has created. “Stop this at once!” I try as hard as I can to pin the door shut but I am too thin; too light to stop a full grown man from forcing the door open and I glance against the wall as it knocks me backward. He scrambles to pull me upright and I scream and kick away from him, landing back on my bed.

 

“Aure,” he begins again, his voice dark and stern. “Give me that book. You’re not allowed it any more.”

 

“No!” I snap back, “It’s mine, you can’t read it!” He growls and tries to rip it from my hands. I cannot see his face very well, for my eyes have squeezed out hot, frustrated tears that blur my vision. I haven’t been eating enough “No!”

 

With a ragged gasp of triumph he pulls it from the last remaining grip I have left in my body and holds it up high. I reach up for it and he pushes me back down on the bed with one hand splayed on my chest. A bubble of bile coughs up in my throat, bitter and burning on my tongue and I swallow it with a grimace.

 

“Aure, what have you done to this?” he asked incredulously, staring at the ravaged pages. It is more than a little battered after I got through with it the third, and perhaps even the fourth time. Instead of a smooth block of pages when closed it is now irregular and full of holes and gaps. They’re everywhere; some destroyed, some hidden either properly or in plain sight all over this house.

 

“Aure!”

 

He’s shaking me, and I still feel sick. Some spittle drips from the side of my lips as the disgusting taste fills my mouth and all I want I is a glass of water and to be alone. 

 

“What have you done? Where is the rest of it?!”

 

There’s a slam in the distance, from beyond the hallway.   
  
“ _ Matthias, my good fellow, where are you? You won’t believe what I found a case of at the gala auction. Circa nineteen-sixty!”  _   
  
Landon has come to visit. I shudder and curl in on myself, swallowing again as I draw my knees up to my chest. Matthias swears, looking over his shoulder. With his own swallow of resignation he draws himself up to his full height, leaving me there on the bed. After a moment of pause he picks up one of my textbooks from my desk and gently presses it into my fingers.

 

“You stay here,” he murmurs with a gentle gravity. “When you feel a little better, clean yourself up, but you don’t have to come down to dinner. I’ll have Ilan send you up a plain ham and lettuce sandwich. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

I don’t say anything.

 

_ Clean yourself up, you look disgusting _

 

“You’d like that,” he repeats hollowly after a moment, and this time it’s not a question. He sighs and shuts the door. I hear him walk down the hall and say hello to his companion. He seems to have come alone.

 

I sit there numbly on the bed, the textbook a poor substitute for my journal but I hug it all the same. The ringing in my ears is starting again. It is only a matter of time now. Soon I will be sent back to the market, and the men in black suits will come to take me. My next owner could be the one that kills me. I cannot even bring myself to walk to the bathroom. 

 

In an hour or so Matthias knocks on my door again, bearing the promised sandwich on a plate. I can hear Landon singing raucously in the parlour, but my master seems coldly sober. He puts the plate at my socked feet and a glass of water on my bedside table. 

 

“I have instructed Amelia to conduct a search of the household for any loose papers in places they shouldn’t be, with strict instruction not to read them,” he says dully, looking away. “She will bring them to me in the morning.”

 

He leaves again. I eat only to get the taste of stomach acid off my tongue. I don’t leave my room to wash my face until the sky is dark and black outside and then I crawl back into bed and stay there, falling asleep with wet eyes. I fall so quickly.


	12. A Lover's Hush

I awake to the touch of fingers on my face.

 

“So beautiful…”

 

My heart skips a beat as the husky croon fills the room and my eyes open to a moonlit window. My throat shrinks inside my neck as I realise in all my undoing, I had forgotten to do the one thing that has kept me safe at night: the chair, under the doorknob. 

 

I draw a slow, gentle breath in and my chest inflates. When I can move again I turn my head and there he is, his blue eyes strangely sober and his nose lacks the red crops of blood vessels that would be there if he really did indulge in that old scotch he was announcing earlier.

 

I realise he didn’t buy it for himself. Matthias is likely passed out in a stupor in his room. Somehow, he knows what I am thinking.

 

“He never could hold his liquor, but then again I always made sure of that,” he whispers, and his teeth shine bright in the moonlight. There is a warmth in his eyes that is somehow more awful than the coldness that was there on that night when I first came to this place. He strokes my cheek, entranced as his fingers thread through my hair. It is the first time he has touched me in over a year.

 

“Why can’t you just go to Cale?” I ask gravely, the words hushed and weary. The world is cast in an ethereal blue hue from the moon and he pulls me upright by one thin wrist with a soft huff of laughter.

 

“Cale,” he repeats derisively. “I sent him away. I caught him stealing again and I was tired of his body. He was fantastically willing, but he’s been marked and over-used. I bought him out for just three grand. Can you imagine anything so cheap?”   
  
His soft chuckling is short-lived as he fixes his attention back on me. “But you,” he murmurs, his gaze intense as he cups my jawbone. “You aren’t such a whore. You never let anyone touch you, do you? I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the only one. Matthias is such a fool.”

 

There is a warm, masculine mouth pressed against mine and I realise with horror that there is another tongue touching my own, slick and insistent. I freeze for a moment, and in that time I get a glimpse of just what Landon’s feelings for me have become. Left alone to fester, they have mutated into something like infatuation; what he once hated about me has been replaced with a lovesick malady of the mind.

 

He loves me, for all my gaunt angles and shadowed eyes; he is in love with me because my skin is untarnished and he sees a purity inside my dispassionate heart that he finds sickeningly attractive. I’m shocked, for how could this happen? I hated him openly, yet he recognised nothing and saw only what he wanted to see… coyness; coquettish cruelty. He saw a boy saving himself for him. It is a delusion of such grandeur that only a man with power could ever have.

 

A hand scrabbles under the hem of my night dress and lays a heat on my thigh and the world snaps back into focus like a slingshot. I jerk back, pulling away from his lips with a gasp.

 

“Landon!”

 

“What is it,” he responds evenly, his hand sliding further up my leg. It burns and I feel that if it reaches my hip bones my throat may burst out in a spray of bile. In a fit of panic, I do the only thing I can; I paint horrified worry on my face like a matinee mask and throw my gaze towards the door.

 

He pauses, turning his head to follow while I silently suck in oxygen. I can’t feel my own heart; I can’t even tell how fast it is going. The sounds around me ring out to silence as he gets to his feet and plods over to the door, turning the snip lock. I see my white case laying there askew on my dresser and a white light fills me so I breathe deeper. It’s a calm exhilaration; an autopilot joy. I scoot forward on my bony knees towards it but he’s back before me like some suited monolith and I stop.

 

“No visitors, now,” he murmurs in his officious baritone. He reaches down and rubs a rough thumb over my bottom lip and I shrink back, face flushed as I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.

 

“I have something,” I whisper, choking out the words.

 

“Hmm?” He tilts his head curiously, looking down at my slender form. I hate myself and it makes me sick, but I bring my chin lower and look up with watery eyes, crossing my arms at the elbows. My dress makes a hollow there, down to the smooth expanse of my chest.

 

“I have something to… hurt less,” I whimper. He enjoys my submission.

 

“Get it,” he instructs with all seriousness, watching me like a specimen of flourishing sexuality. He slumps onto my bed and leans back on his hands as I slip away, my socked feet silent on the floor as I pad across to my desk. I keep my nausea contained as one thin hand rifles through its contents and picks out a small jar with a screw-top lid. I place it very cautiously in one palm and then the other, sliding my hand across the smooth surface of my desk. 

 

“Aure,” he says aloud at my dawdling, and I let myself flinch. I am controlled like a marionette, torn between a sickly panic and something calm at my core moving the strings as I walk back and hold it out for him. He takes it with a consideration he has never shown before; thoughtful now that I am compliant. Inside it is a plain, unscented balm. He could never have known that it was for corns of the feet. He grins openly, enjoying his authority. “You really did learn from those books.”

 

He lays back and pulls me onto him, and I squeak and clench my fists and my frail body is suddenly straddling his and I feel a breeze on my backside. He smiles hazily as he bunches cotton in his hands, pulling my gown up. 

 

“You’re a little old and a little thin for my tastes now, but for you… I can stand all that,” he sighs wistfully, pressing me down to sit on his stomach as he tugs at his zipper. “I’ll watch your face the whole way this time, Aure. I’ll-“

 

He stops. His eyes were self-satisfied and creased at the corners but he had been watching my tragic, beautiful face instead of my hands.

 

It all blooms in his expression in mere seconds, a serenity filling my heart as the nerve endings in his eyelids register something sharp there, pressing into the tender skin. Time slows down and I swear I see each miniscule contraction in his iris, even in the darkness. His eyes turn wide and he feels a drop of warm blood from my palm drip onto his cheek.

 

I never did clean my desk.

 

“Laaaan-don,” I whisper softly with a smile and just before he starts to breathe again I drag the razor blades across with a flick of both wrists. The effect is immediate; a blade across the eye of any animal will induce an immediate frenzy. He thrashes and throws me off him, screaming and kicking in his blindness. I didn’t cut so deeply; there is no spray of vitreous humour across the bed sheets. I have simply done all that was necessary.

 

I will never be beautiful again. Not to him. I smile and stand up, moving to the door and turning the lock. I leave it open and just manage to slip out of the way as he charges at me. His hip collides painfully with the door knob but that doesn’t stop his escape, howling down the hall with one hand clapped over his eyes. 

 

He ricochets off the wall and stumbles, and I watch from the space of my resecured sanctuary as his hand catches the banister and he begins a hurried descent down the stairs. I can imagine in my mind’s eye the inevitable loss of footing, one ankle rolling in on itself and all his limbs twisting as he crumples down like a fallen empire. What follows next is a verifiable rolling thunder on the hardwood, the possible crack of bone or banister then silence.

 

I don’t investigate. There is no need to. I have things to do.

 

In my room, I strip the covers from my bed down to the mattress and a single sheet that has not been tarnished by his touch. These, I bundle up with my night dress and I place it all in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. I discard the razor blades in the waste bin then wash my face while standing nude on the cold tiles, splashing water up across my arms and drying myself off with a fresh towel. I brush and braid my hair, securing it neatly with an elastic tie.

 

My movements feel slow and fluid as my feet take me back to my bedroom, as though I am walking through water but my head feels clear. The ringing has stopped, and I calmly relish in the way the click of the lock resounds in the silence. The legs of the chair vibrate against the wooden floor as I drag it over to the door handle.

 

It will be a different story when the help ventures out of their quarters in the morning, but for now the house is quiet.


	13. Fury

I awaken to a single scream; a sharp, shrill shriek that barrels up the staircase and spreads through the stately halls. My eyes open and I am still, a ghost of a smile just behind my lips.   
  
I take the liberty of skipping breakfast, instead preparing for the day as if the ordeal of it simply didn’t exist, stepping into my leotard and pulling it up my wiry legs. I change my socks, and pull on a pair of nude ballet flats. Serene and detached, I mostly close my eyes as I brush my hair at the mirror, weaving it into a braid at the base of my skull. I hear music in my head; Chopin’s Nocturnes. It is quite beautiful and soothing, and it stops me from focusing too much on the scrapes and shuffles outside in the hall.

A while later, when I am presentable; I slip an ivory knit bolero up onto my bony shoulders and gently remove the chair from underneath the door handle. I step out into the empty hall with the Blochs in hand and I stop briefly in the bathroom to splash tepid water onto my face.   
  
I take a moment then to admire myself in the mirror, and for the first time in a long while, I feel clean and orderly. My hair is brushed and neat, my clothes are clean and my mind is preoccupied by its own radio and detached from worry. Rubbing away water drops with a fluffy towel; I see that the shadows under my eyes are still there like old friends, reassuring me of the growing maturity in my pallid face.   
  
My name is Aure, and I am growing older. What paedophile would want me now? There are none left that ever could. I am not quite deranged enough to think that I could ever be truly safe, but I feel happy. Just for now.   
  
Smoothing out the skirt wrapped around my waist, I walk back out into the hall and down towards the entryway. I stop and note with mild interest the dent Landon’s skull must have made in the plaster, then look to my left to the aftermath below. His heft had dislodged several railings from the banister, for he had been both a tall and stocky man, and blood pooled ominously on the lowest landing. At the foot of the stairs there are scattered papers and an upended silver tray, a smashed teacup in a puddle. 

It was no doubt Amelia who found the scene first, taking Matthias his first brew of the day and the diary pages she had been ordered to collect. The body is absent. I do not know if it has been moved, or if Landon himself managed to get away. My expression numb, I consider going down to collect the pages, but it would have no benefit. And with the blood blocking my path, it would be impossible to do it without staining my shoes. There are more than a few smudges around the largest pool of crimson; some from hands, another from the distortion made by human hair and expensive dress shirts. On the next step down I can see a stain in the shape of a shoe sole beginning to congeal.   
  
There is only so much I can piece together based on the evidence I can see. But I hear Matthias down below in the entryway, hushed and stressed words growing louder as he appears into view in a dressing gown and bloody slippers, several papers clutched in one hand and a black brick in the other. He clutches it to his ear like a telephone receiver, though I can see no cord.   
  
“But I don’t know what to  _ do _ ! Aren’t you people supposed to help me?!”   
  
It must be a phone; otherwise my master has lapsed into a mental disorder, and he is certainly nowhere near as refined at coping with it as his slave.   
  
“ _ What do you mean it will cost me?” _ _   
_ __   
He whirls around, an expressive gesture torn between helplessness and frustration and he sees me at the top of the stairs. It is as if his eyes aren’t quite sure what to do; they scrunch up and he grimaces, mouthing silent words that he isn’t sure how to say. Finally, he twists away from the sight of me, hunching and cupping a hand over the receiver as he mutters something angrily. Disinterested by this show of squirming, I turn my head and stoically return on my journey to the dance studio. It is no use fighting the inevitable. Once he has run out of friends on the phone, he will begin to put the truth together.   
  
He already has all of the pieces.

For the sake of nostalgia, once I am laced into my Blochs, I rise up on my toes and patter across the hardwood, watching myself in the mirror. I am growing very good it. I am a lot stronger now. Not only can I master these things, these delicate little twitches and sweeping, graceful curves, but I can also make movements that are sharp and swift; powerful and domineering despite my slight size. I can turn and strike just as viciously as a viper, then leap and land with a boom like a ram atop a rock. I can do a lot of things, and they are all executed precisely and without error.

“Aure.”   
  
My only errors seem to be in having the burden of company around me. If only I could be alone.   
  
“Aure,” the next croak is feeble and heartbroken, and I scowl and look to the record player. I forgot I never turned it on, and the music dies down in my head.   
  
“What?” I reply coldly, turning my head with a stony stare. He flinches at this informal address, too used to being coddled by niceties. Men like Matthias are far too accustomed to a lot of things, and today will be one of the rare occasions when all of his delusions come crashing down around his ears. As if he is already aware of this, he takes a few shaky steps into the studio, grabbing the bar for support.   
  
“I sent Ilan and Amelia away for a little while,” he says quietly, sounding a lot younger than his years. This may be a consequence of my contemptuous perception of him, perhaps he has been affected strongly by the pages of my diary. I told him not to read them. Either way, I feel he deserves it. He did this. He was negligent. Is that not complicity?    


“It is funny to me, how it is only now that you attempt to shield anyone other than yourself,” I say softly, but my words are clear. My words are needles in the crown of the skull. I stand confidently on the very tips of my toes, balanced and deadly. My legs are quite literally extensions of myself, and one raises up fluidly, half crooked and poised as I pivot. He opens his mouth to say something; perhaps to ask some coy question to confirm or deny his suspicions, and I cut him off with no urgency in my voice.   


“Do you know,” I sound out; the words are cold. “…how it feels? The agony of it; the guilt that floods you even as your physical wounds are only just beginning to scab? Do you understand how it can intensify when you do not even understand what you did wrong? When it is whispered in your ear that you are a whore?”

“Aure, you’re… it was going to happen sooner or later, you’re so…” he stutters softly, and I remain there on my toes even though it is beginning to burn, lips curled back in contempt at his efforts in excuses. Even raised up as I am, we still don’t see eye to eye. I will always be small; the lasting damage of chronic malnutrition and forced exercise equating to torture.

“Oh, but it did happen soon. It happened the very night I arrived here,” I said in a vicious hush. Something inside me, something black and seething, feels happy at the way his face changes, the way his crumbling defences fall into the void. He had no idea it was that early; not at all.

“But… you, you were only twelve,” he notes, confusion riddling his weak tone.

“Eleven,” I reply with venom, and he winces. “The depravity of men knows no boundaries. Especially for such a…  _ pure _ prize,” I say contemptuously, regarding my own pale wrist with a squint.

“Aure,” he pleads, stepping forward with hunched posture and upturned palms. “You have to believe me, I had no idea! That he did the same to you…”

My nose wrinkles. Even now, he has the audacity to remind me that I was not the only one to be speared with Landon’s cock in this household. Perhaps my master thinks he can form some sort of alliance with me in our injuries, but my heart has turned cold to the notion of such a thing long ago. No one could ever understand.

“The same,” I croon. “Tell me, were you that young? Did you know about sexual intercourse? About fucking? Rape?” I watch his face twist uncomfortably as those foul words slip from my delicate lips, and I take satisfaction in the situation I have put him in. “Let us not forget who denied me access to such knowledge for so long,” I say darkly. “Let us not forget who was responsible for my care.”

“I never knew it was so awful!” the older man cried out helplessly, bracing himself like a cornered dog. “I- I thought you could handle it!”

So he  _ did _ know.

“Aure, please… you have to understand the situation,” he implores, and I gently grit my teeth and lower onto the flats of my feet. “He’s done so much for us! He… I mean, to do something like this, how did you even possibly…”

_ Landon... _

I smile to the window. “How did such a small boy become the undoing of such a powerful man,” I reiterate the question for him, remembering the feel of steel underneath my thumbs. I turn to him with perhaps the warmest expression I have ever showed and it is only a bitter parody of happiness. I’ll tell him, because there’s no way he can prove it; because I want to see just how unbelievable he finds it that I could do such a thing. “Razors. Weaker men might have used them on their wrists. I used them on his eyes, Matthias.” 

My words are like a a punch to the stomach, yet as wounded as he is, I can still see the horror blooming in his eyes. Crumpling backwards, he spins around and runs from the room. There is a quick pounding as he descends the stairs.

My performance complete, I blink once and let my expression fade back to a blank slate. Admitting a crime feels like a rush; a cool, whistling sensation like jumping off a cliff into a freezing lake. My heart takes a moment to calm down after the plunge. With the door still open, I return to stretching and practicing movements, dimly aware of choked sobbing drifting up into the hallways down below.

I wonder how many times I will have to do this. Are all men in the world bad, or will my mere presence bring out the demon within them, like some sort of curse? There is a slow plodding as Matthias ascends the staircase again, something dragging and bumping the stairs out of time with his steps. Stubbornly, I keep practicing. My arabesques are grand and straight. I am very close to reaching up and back to grab my foot.

Wet laughter bubbles up from the hall outside.

“He’s your problem now.”

There is a strange creaking sound, groaning timber from thin posts and my fingers slip from the satin toe of the Bloch and my leg whips down to join the other. Suddenly, all is silent save for the faint but ominous squeaking, not unlike a quiet mouse. 

A moment later, there is another clatter and my heart skips a beat. I do not call out. My lips pressed shut, I lace my fingers together and press them to my breastbone, my eyes wide and alert in my reflection. I take a slow breath in through the nose and step out into the hall. The first thing my keen eyes spot is the rope knotted around the base of one of the thicker banisters.

I do not let myself peer over the edge of the landing. I can already see in my mind an implausible horror, that somehow his face might be looking up and straight at me if I do. What I do instead is slow and careful; I move to the top of the stairs and close my eyes, squeezing the handrail and carefully stepping down. I got blood on my Blochs that day; they have been no good to me ever since. I was going so slowly in my blindness that I did not slip and fall, but I could not look at them again after that stain was made.

When there are no stairs left, I turn slowly and open my eyes to the floor. There, partially saved by an expensive roman carpet was the brick phone from before, the casing cracked. Utterly sombre, I lift my head and there he is in his entirety, swinging in little arcs by the noose around his neck. His skin is flushed by blood collected under the epidermis and his legs made odd twitching spasms, but I take it as no sign of life. With one metre of rope between each knot, the jerk of the fall would have likely snapped his neck. His head lolls forward, his face mercifully shrouded by his messy artist’s hair. He died in his dressing gown.

Feeling numb, I stand there for a while, and then a buzzing catches my attention. The sound of a voice in the distance, some angry cry in an oddly shrew-like baritone. The phone. I pick it up and regard the circular arrangement of holes where the noise is coming from.

The words are distorted and buzzing; I think it was broken by the fall. But I know who it is. I bring it up to my ear like a sea shell, holding it in the same way Matthias had held it.

“It happened again,” I say quietly, and the yelling stops.

“…  _ kid? _ ”

“I will need collecting.”


	14. Methodology

“Nah, nah; kid, please,  _ wait-” _

I take the phone away from my ear and set it on the table. The urgent tone dies down to a tinny buzz with the extra distance, though I do hear some expletives before the call drops to an engaged tone. I’m not sure how to turn it off, so I leave it there. I now have things to do.

I will not be found cowering in a leotard with ribbons shackled around my ankles; indeed, I will not be taking anything with me relevant to the ballet at all. It was my own undoing from the very start; these men, these bad men think only in stereotypes of sex and power, a petty form of artistry. There is an allure in the agonising ability to balance on my toes that I was too young to understand, but I do now. 

These men are animals. To be beautiful, although crucial to my survival, is a burden. But there is a way to overcome this. There is a path I can see that will protect me from sexual intrigue, and it is paved with horror.

The metal waste-paper basket makes a loud scrape as I drag it across my bedroom floor, adrenalin pulsing through my veins. It spins and rocks as I release it from my fingertips, then settles flat on the floor once more. Throwing open my wardrobe doors, I stare at the clothes I have accumulated with a faint grunt and seize the white coat box from the bottom shelf, leaving it open on my bed. With a wan smile, I look down at the charred photograph at the bottom of the box before I set about undressing.   
  
I choose an austere white dress with a pan collar, tying the cotton sash at the back of my slim waist. These clothes are beginning to look peculiar on me now; I note this with mild disdain as I view myself in the mirror. My gauntness creates an image of me that assists in removing most of the expectations of a traditionally female appearance from the viewer, but without my blond braid, the illusion would easily fall apart. It is a flimsy identity; I know. The thought won’t leave my mind as I keep my tights on and slip into a pair of black flats. But it is all I have, right now.   
  
I pick a small selection of dresses, shirts and blouses; all of them plain and without lace. These are the practical pieces I have picked for myself, not miss Amelia. I fold them neatly then place my hair brush and the white case on top. This has taken mere minutes. I do not know how much time I have; it is not feasible to expect the men to arrive very soon, but dawdling is out of the question. It is not just the ballet I want omitted from my image. I have left quite a little trail of evidence for my own undoing and it is currently spread all over the entry hall.   
  
The peculiar blood splatter will create mystery enough. There is no getting rid of that; not with what little time I had. I patter down the stairs and collected each and every diary page from the floor into a hasty stack. Some are smeared with bloody foot prints; others are crumpled form where Matthias once clenched them in his fist. 

Ignoring the space beside me, I set my expression and ascend the stairs again with these in hand. They become a torn nest in the bottom of the waste paper basket, some big, some small. I slice across the skin of my fingers in my haste to tear them apart but I press on. I don’t stop until they’re all in there, and only then do I bring my smarting fingers to my lips as I collect a book of matches from the white case and move over to the window. I lift the seat cushions and stare down at the pair of panties with contempt. The stain has turned a dark, rusty brown now; it’s orange at the edges like an ugly flower.

I pick them up by thumb and forefinger and take them to the middle of the room. Briefly negotiating the matchbook one-handed, I manage to light one with my thumb nail and I hold it underneath the cotton until the flame catches on. The flames crackle quickly and I catch the faintly acrid scent of the elastic at the edges burning before I let them drop into the bin below. The fire infects the rest of the contents in the bin and begins to smoke, but it is too far from anything else in the room to catch on.

I kept just one page. I put it at the bottom of the coat box with the photograph. I’m not sorry.   
  
Now there is just one thing left to address; for he will be coming. That man with the stony face, the only man alive who knows with certainty what I have done. Mr. Varelli.

_ How did you… _

I don’t want even him to know just what went on in this house. Now that Matthias is gone I am swiftly becoming cold to it; I want it dead and buried, just like his corpse will soon be. I collect the razor blades from the bin in the bathroom, the only evidence that could confirm just how a grown man might be sent running from a child’s bedroom. The banisters and blood splatter will tell the rest; it is all a matter of forensic deduction. But I like my privacy.   
  
These two, delicate little weapons... it seems almost a shame to discard them. To do so poses quite a challenge, for metal will not burn away to unintelligible ashes in the same way as cotton or paper. If I had premeditated my actions, I would have selected wooden splinters, but I cannot lament that now. These razors need to go somewhere they will not be found, and hiding them in plain sight has proven ineffective in the past. 

I struggle to think where they could go, my knowledge of the nooks and crannies of Matthias’ manor slipping through my mind like sand through an hourglass. There seems to be no place that the monolithic figure in my mind would leave unturned. I can almost sense the mocking walls warping around me, making it an effort not to clench my fist around the offending blades. I have never felt comfortable here, after that first night.

My eyes open.

_ Hey, Aure _ …

There is just one place I have been at ease. It is quite far away and it has no direct path. The only other person who ever saw it has slipped back out into the outside world without a trace. I clatter down the stairs, jump the blood puddle and make for the back door with a skipping heart. The wind is exhilarating as it rushes past my ears and I think I am partially excited to be there just one more time. I’ll catch my breath on the way back; right now my time grows less and less as I have no clear idea of just how long a car journey takes from the city. The quiet one drives recklessly.

_ Why don’t you just _ …

I collapse against the tree trunk with a heavy sigh, the smooth bark caressing my cheek. I think this inanimate yet still living thing is the only entity I could ever trust. The willow fronds rustle in reply as I spend just one moment longer before I bend to slot the razor blade between the deep grooves in the roots. No one will ever find them here.   
  
I walk back to the manor with a sombre expression. The excitement is over; I will be leaving soon. I wash my face and collect the coat box from my bed, softly breathing in the smell of smoke from the smouldering ashes in the centre of the room. I poke through them with a ballpoint pen to make sure there are no large pieces left intact. They’re all destroyed.

This is good.

I take the box with me as I exit my bedroom for the last time and tip-toe down the stairs. I am pleased to note that the world is still and quiet now; the rope had stopped creaking and the corpse hangs still. Momentum cannot last forever. I deposit the box by the front door then go into the dining room, and for the first time in my life I venture through the service doorway that leads to the kitchen.   


I step into a chequered tile room and there’s a warbling rattle wheeze to my left that makes my attention snap in that direction. “Cook?”   


There’s no one there. Ilan was a young and meticulous man, and the kitchen is spotless, containing some polished white machines I do not recognise. Hanging on the wall I am staring at is a well-stocked knife rack, each silver blade gleaming enough to ounce back a fuzzy reflection of myself. I take one into my hand almost lovingly; just a shade too large to sensibly core and apple but that is what I use it for. I enjoy the crisp sound of the skin breaking, the gentle thud of steel on chopping block.

It’s sweet.

I finish my meal and brew a cup of tea, thinking quietly to myself as I sip. In time, there is a squeal of tires and a pounding at the door shortly after. I gently place the tea cup back on its saucer. As I core myself another apple, the pounding ceases and there is a strange, muffled  _ crack _ followed by the sound of the front door opening.

“God fucking dammit… Benny, get over here! We’ve got a swinger.”

Strange. The door had been locked. With the knife in my left hand and the apple in my right, I move silently from the kitchen and back through the dining room. The voice is different from any I remember. With a sliver of my body visible in the door frame, I peek out with my knife hand held loosely at my side.

Standing there in the doorway is a man in expensive suit slacks but a partially unbuttoned cotton shirt with no sleeves, with dark red hair to match his livid expression. His lips twisted back in a grimace, he scans the stairway and the upper railing with one muscular arm stretched out, holding a pistol with an unusually long barrel. He must have shot out the lock.

Benny joins him in the doorway after a moment; his pointed face has barely changed over the past few years. Cursing under his breath as he sees the grim corpse in the entryway, he turns and heads back down the front steps, calling as he goes.

“Shins, bring a cleanup kit, will ya? It’s a fuckin’ mess in there!”

The redhead steps forwards with a grimace, the weapon still raised as though he expects an attack. His attention drops down to the puddled blood by the stairs with a softly muttered expletive, and I step out of the dining room. Quiet as I am, I make it into the entryway itself before the movement of my white dress catches his eye. Jerking upright, he whirls around and points the gun squarely at my temple, through his lips twist back to bare porcelain teeth that don’t match his nicotine-stained fingers.

“Who the fuck are you?!” he snarls, and I blink back at him morosely, noticing the discomfort on his face. His finger flexes on the trigger.

“My name is Aure,” I reply simply.

“Drop the knife!”

I have no allegiance to this man. He has not been identified as my master. “No,” I reply softly, lifting my apple to my lips to take a bite. My eerie blue eyes bore into his and he swears and stomps closer, bracing his gun hand with the other hand.

“I said drop the knife, you creepy little cunt!”   
  
Moments after the commotion started, Benny appears at the door, flanked by the driver and the stone-faced man.   
  
“Shit, boss,  _ boss! _ What are you doing? That’s the kid!” the shortest Italian cries out in a panic, apparently junior to this redhead even though he is older.

“He’s a fuckin’ queer, and look at all of this shit!” the ‘boss’ gestures to the gory evidence with his pistol. He rounds on Mr Varelli with aggression similar to a hostile animal, making a violent gesture of holstering his weapon on the back of his belt. “He goes AWOL again, and I’ll put a bullet through his skull. You fuckin’ hear me, Rigo?!” 

He bumps shoulders with him roughly on his way out, running his fingers through the pomade in his fiery hair and fishing a cigarette lighter out of his pocket even as he stomps down the front steps. Mr Varelli does not react; he stands his ground and his eyes slide to watch his superior leave with a cool contempt that reminds me of myself. These same brown eyes sweep slowly across the scene that lies before him in the entryway, from the blood and smashed porcelain teaware to the corpse swinging from the upper railings. Then they move to me. I swallow my bite of apple as Benny gingerly steps forward. 

“Hey, kid. How you doing? Do you remember me?” he offers an uneasy grin, though he keeps his distance, eyeing the knife.

“Yes,” I reply neatly. Rigo’s nostrils flare briefly and then he is quietly moving up the stairs, stepping meticulously around the stains. I watch him until he disappears from view on the upper level before I look back to Benny. ‘Shins’ steps out from behind him with a wide grin, suited but with his tight-fitting slack tucked into a pair of black boots with a strip of inch-long steel spikes running down the front. He’s much more relaxed than the first time we met, but he still doesn’t seem to talk much.

“I would like to leave now,” I announce softly, my head turned resolutely away from the swinging corpse.   
  
“No can do just yet, kid. Uh, Aure. This wasn’t really planned, like; we’ve got some cleanup to do.” Benny gestures with his hands while he explains the uneasy situation, and I hear confident footsteps striding from one end of the hallway to the other upstairs. “Besides,” Benny adds, looking up at the sound. “We can’t do much without Varelli’s say-so. After Thierry, he’s the one calling the shots.”   
  
“Who is Thierry?” I shoot back evenly, and his lips twist in a crooked grin.    
  
“He’s the boss. You might hear grunts calling him ‘Red’,” he chuckles unevenly. “He don’t mind it.”

“Very well,” I sigh, listening to yet more footsteps up above, going back in the direction they first came. “I will be waiting in the dining room.” With that, I leave them to their clean up to return to my apple.

He comes to me before half an hour has passed, his towering, black-suited frame filling the kitchen doorway. 

“Aure,” he murmurs; his accent polished but neutral and difficult to place geographically. If I did not know his surname, I would not have wagered he was of Italian descent. By comparison, Benny’s drawl makes him sound uneducated.

I look at him fairly insolently as I don’t know what he has found or how he plans to proceed with it. I keep my guard up because morbid silence is all I have.

“We need to have a discussion about the events that took place here today.” His eyes are shadowed, and although brown in colour their expression is as stony as ever.

“Very well,” I reply, my tone laced with the barest hint of suspicion, mistrust. “Please shut the door.”


	15. Cleanup Crew

He steps into the kitchen and shuts the door behind him. I note with some interest the skill with which he ensures that every motion; from the door in the frame to the turning of the latch, is soundless. He pulls out a chair adjacent from my own and sits down, folding a pair of well-manicured hands upon the table.

 

He has never been this close before; not for so long. Judging by the condition of his skin, I would pin his age in his late thirties; perhaps early fourties; but then again I have not seen many examples of this age to judge by. He has shadows under his eyes like me, but unlike my ghostly blue irises rendering my expression fey at best, his dark brown eyes are serious and unforgiving. He seems so comfortable with this confrontation that I find it difficult to keep a hold on my apprehension, but I do not like not knowing what he will say.

 

I want to cross my arms tightly over my chest, but I know how the body language will read, so I restrain myself. I do however turn my cheek with a resentful pout, squinting bitterly as a terribly loud  _ whump _ sounds from the entryway.   
  
_ “Aye Shins, lay down a fuckin’ tarp next time, ya bastid!” _

 

Rigo Varelli clears his throat softly, and I let him recapture my attention, forcing my arms to lie dead on my lap. “What is your name?” he asks, speaking quietly though I can see he is watching me very closely with those hooded eyes.   
  
“Aure,” I respond simply, my tone moderately guarded.   
  
“Your full name,” he presses.   
  
“There is no more,” I utter softly, shifting to correct my posture and brushing hair behind my ear. I break eye contact again, but I am annoyed. He should know this simple information. “You know there is no more.”

 

“What makes you say that?”   
  
I am being analysed. I should tread carefully, but I have a certain pride towards my own skills at perception. How long could they really think they could keep me in the dark, these men in suits? Something has been amiss ever since I found the butler burning evidence of my existence.

 

“I do not have a legal identity,” I state simply. To say any more would give too much away.   
  
“Do you know why that is?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. He seems well-educated; certainly several grades above Benny and his cohort.   
  
“Because I am a slave,” I sigh wearily, long since having come to terms with the title. I am resigned to it because my age and knowledge of the outside world prevents me from surviving independently. Perhaps it would be different in five years or so, but who knows if I will be alive then?

 

He smiles faintly, which takes me aback. I didn’t think he was capable of smiling. “Close,” he admonishes. “But not quite. The amount of money it takes to bring someone into this world anonymously and keep them that way is not worth spending on a mere slave.”

 

_ Anyone offering less than six digits can fuck off, ya hear me? _

 

“I would think you have recuperated a good portion of your initial investment by now,” I say coldly. I remember the market with crystal clarity. I was sold on a contract for six years; this arrangement barely made it past two.

 

“It is not my loss. I am responsible for you, but I am not the benefactor behind your existence,” he responds calmly.   
  
_ Responsible _ . I click my tongue, growing haughty. “Several men have been  _ responsible _ for me. They have not been successful. And if it is not you, then who?”   
  
“My employer; the Company.”   
  
This is a word that has several meanings, ranging from mere companionship to dance troupes to business entities. I expect the later, but I still crave more explanation. “And who is in this  _ Company _ ?” I ask crisply.

 

“That is not your concern,” he tells me sternly. “For now, we must focus on the fundamentals of your training,” he says forwardly, maintaining steady eye contact all this while; at least, that is what I find whenever I do look at him. 

 

I lack the intuition to read this strange man; he doesn’t behave like a chauvinist pig or a skittish artist. I don’t know what he means when he says I am to be trained. The only bold face I can present is to ask for more information without shame. That is the least I can do. “What kind of training am I to receive?” I ask, peering at him with no small portion of incredulousness.

 

He smiles again, only softly. The effect is morbid. “We possess a very particular set of skills.” I open my mouth to press further but he rises, silently but with such suddenness that I startle. “Come with me,” he says, heading for the entryway, “Bring that knife. It is a  _ Wüsthof;  _ they are well-made.”

 

I frown down at the knife I had been paring fruit with and I see the name WÜSTHOF printed on the steel next to my thumb. I had not known the reputation of the maker, but it makes sense that a manor like this would have a finely equipped kitchen.

 

In the entry way I confirm that the sound earlier was the corpse being cut down from the banister. I see a pair of mottle feet with their toes pointing towards the ceiling and I turn away.   
  
“Aure, look at the body.” Rigo instructs, and I do not want to. My reluctance is picked up on immediately. “ _ Aure _ ,” the call is insistent and rich with warning. At no time does he growl or seem violent, but he expects obedience. Somewhat bitterly, I turn to look at the body laid out on the entryway rug.

 

I shouldn’t have worried so much. There is nothing there to unnerve me any more; the head is now missing from the corpse. Sparsely clad in a plaid robe and cashmere pyjama bottoms, I feel much more at ease viewing this unidentifiable specimen than I ever would have been if it still had a face. The rope is gone now, though the marks from it are still present on the remaining stump of the neck; I can see rubber tubing had been applied tightly much closer to the collarbone to serve as a kind of tourniquet. 

 

Given the amount of time it was hanging, most of the blood had collected in the legs and feet of the body as rigor mortis began to set in. I doubt there was any arterial spray at all when the head was severed, and what little blood that has sluggishly oozed out has been collected in a black plastic bag crumpled open underneath the wound. Standing above his handiwork, Shins slings a similar bag over his shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up with a toothy grin. With his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his hands clad in rubber gloves, Benny sighs and drops a bloody slipper into another plastic bag, tying a knot in it.   
  
“Yeesh. Welcome to cleanup, kid. We can’t all keep our hands clean.”

 

I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. “We are an arm of the business world that most people prefer not to talk about,” Rigo murmurs near my ear. “We help paying clients keep their power.”   
  
Benny bubbled up with some coarse laughter. “You got them moolies and spics running around shootin’ up joints and breakin’ knee caps. Ain’t none of them hold a candle to the Michaels’ Boys’  _ Varelli the Impaler _ .” He picks up a silver frame and tosses it to Rigo. He catches it as it arcs smoothly through the air and I see there is a blade on the larger side, opposite a narrower shape to serve as a handle. 

 

I know what that is. I have seen it in my text books. It is a medical-grade bone saw.

 

“We do not normally engage in this sort of cleanup unless the corpse is in our own home,” Rigo explains, setting the saw on the table for a moment as he rolls up his sleeves, “but this is an opportunity for you to learn, Aure.”   
  
“What will you do with the pieces?” I ask curiously, looking down at the body as if it were a specimen. Perhaps it is. I am being trained, after all. 

 

Benny took it upon himself to answer the question. “We got a little place here, a little place there to tuck the stiffs away, you know what I’m saying, kid?” he gestures with a lopsided grin, but he’s being sincere, if indirect. “But it’s the head and hands that are the real nasties. Everything these days has got a goddamn print on it on file with the feds. They can even use the damn dental records; we normally give ‘em a bubble bath or have ourselves a little cook-out.”   
  
“Burning remains or dissolving them in acid can minimise the impact of any evidence found,” Rigo clarifies in a clinical manner, watching my furrowed brow. This kidn of explanation makes more sense to me.   
  
“Aw c’mon, Varelli. You can’t expect straight talk from a lickspittle like me,” Benny shrugs, gathering up some bin liners and heading out to the car. Rigo ignores him and gets down onto his knees beside the body. I follow suit on the opposite side, watching closely as he takes the fingers and palm in one hand in a fashion not so dissimilar from a handshake.

 

“It is okay to touch dry evidence destined for cleanup without a glove,” he says softly, looking into my eyes as he gives me the instruction. “If it is soiled, or if we are not at home, you will wear gloves. I will buy you a pair once you have been fitted for them.”   
  


I nod mutely; I am far more interested in the saw in his other hand than uniform guidelines, though I can recognise their significance.

 

“This will cut through bone easily enough, but to save time and the life of the blade it is best to cut through the ligaments between the arm and the hand,” he explains, positioning the saw and making a small incision with one forward stroke. Once the jagged metal teeth have established friction he begins to saw back and forth at an even pace.

 

“These bones are called the radius and the ulna, and the carpals are in the hand,” I offer passively, fascinated by the cross-section of tissues as the entire hand becomes free. Rigo bags it immediately and then offers me the saw, handle first.

 

“That is correct,” he says firmly. “Now, I want you to sever the other hand.”

 

I could never have dreamed of such an opportunity as this. I take the saw respectfully, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear before assuming a more stable kneeling stance. I take the hand in a firm grip as my mentor had demonstrated; the skin feels slightly rubbery and numb. The body temperature is dropping as its surroundings rob the corpse of its heat.

 

“Five millimetres to the left, start at an angle,” Rigo prompts me after my first judge at positioning the blade. I follow his instruction and start to cut. There is the odd, slick sound of sawn flesh as the fissure deepens. It gets louder when I get to the inevitable bones there, for there is no part on the body that has a gap to saw through in a straight line.

 

“Yes, that is very good, Aure,” he says fondly. “Keep the cut clean at the last flap of skin. Yes… now, into the bag.” I place the lukewarm hand into the bag with it’s twin and Rigo ties a knot into the plastic. We forcibly bend the stiffening arms so the wrists will bleed onto the body’s own stomach, then stand aside as Benny and Shins squat and lift the corpse into a body bag they lay on the ground next to it. It would seem they are well-prepared. They zip it up and carry it out on their shoulders as Rigo unwinds his sleeves and shrugs his jacket back onto his shoulders. 

 

“The box by the door is yours,” he states, glancing over at it.

 

“Yes,” I reply, and I realise only after I have said it just how wistful I sound. I am filled with a warmth I have no felt before and I am not entirely sure why. I think it might be happiness, though if it is it is a brand I have not felt before. There must be another word that is more accurate. I have never felt this affirmed about my own existence before.

 

Rigo nods stoically. “Place the knife inside the box, then bring it outside.”

 

I notice that the puddle of blood remains on the floor as I move to collect it. “What of the other evidence?” I ask curiously, keeping my tone gentle. I would never presume that he would forget a detail like this.

 

“It will be taken care of later,” Rigo says calmly as he crosses the threshold.

 

“A joint like this ain’t so hot, kid,” Benny grins as he trots back up the steps to collect his jacket and the kit bag containing tools such as the saw. “Rich folks always have their privacy, and this author-type wasn’t a real sociable guy, like.”

 

“The only regular visitor is unlikely to come back,” I quip coldly, picking up my box and nimble making my way down the stairs.

 

There is one stretched, black town car next to a motorcycle. Judging by the spikes on the rims of the bike, I would say that it belonged to Shins. Red has not left; he is sitting on the bonnet of the car with a cigarette in one hand and another large phone in the other. He throws a sneer in my direction and I take it as calmly as Rigo took his insolence earlier. I of all people know how to appear passive to my superiors.

 

Shins straps on a helmet after depositing two black bags in a box at the rear of the motorcycle. He is quick to hop on and tears off with a screech of tires and a faint smell of petrol and burning rubber in his wake. It is Benny who slips into the driver’s seat of the car and for that, I am grateful. Rigo and I take the back seats. There is room for another on a seat facing in the opposite direction, yet when Thierry ‘Red’ Michaels slides off the bonnet he decisively takes the front seat next to Benny. It would seem he does not like to look at me. This is good.

 

“We will go to one of the clubhouses before we go home,” Rigo explains, turning his head to me as the car takes off smoothly. “The good doctor will need to examine you.”

 

I nod.


	16. Business Meeting

There are sounds and smells here that I have never encountered and yet I feel a strange sense of familiarity; a  _ déjà vu  _ here in the grime that is so very different from the sheltered white manors tucked away in the countryside. And it is strange that I could feel such a thing here in this back alley, where the walls run tall into the sky and the air is laced with the background screech of sirens and the shouts of men and women; car tires. I watch Thierry’s movements with perfect focus as he slips out of the car seat and into the silk lining of a suit jacket, combing his crimson hair back with a comb, leering out at the empty street before him as though he sees something that we do not. That I do not. 

 

What do these men see, I wonder? I watch as the others climb out of the car and fix up their appearance, buttoning shirt cuffs and slicking back hair. They seem so  _ reassured _ ; their eyes look through the gritty bricks around them and they stare at something in the future I cannot fathom. These are not men of retro or even introspection: these are specimens of pure…  _ extraspection.  _ Is that even a word?

 

It strikes me immediately that I do not belong here. My quietness, my feminine appearance is out of place in this world. These dresses seem worthless now; these excess locks of hair hang from my scalp like useless appendages. Looking down at the coat box, I wonder why I even bothered bringing it. I had thought myself so prepared. 

 

A hand falls on my shoulder, snapping me out of my reverie. It is Rigo. “You’ll move through this place without panic and without comment on the calibre of the people you see inside,” he murmurs somewhere around my ear, and I nod and let my ghostly blue eyes slip out of focus for a moment as his fingers squeeze the ridges of my scapula.

 

At the end of the grimy passage there is a heavy iron door with a rusted sign reading  _ STAFF ONLY _ . Thierry sticks his hands in his pockets and kicks the base of the door with a soft  _ thunk _ . The sign slides back promptly to reveal a set of suspicious eyes. It only takes one look at Thierry’s face for the lackey to close the shutter and slide back the heavy bolt of the lock. It opens up to reveal a small office with a narrow flight of stairs leading down to a basement level.

 

“Evenin’ boss,” the doorman grins. It is still broad daylight but Mister Thierry simply shoots a crooked grin and gives the man a light pat on his cheek before descending. I have a terrible feeling I am about to enter a realm of slang – something that is not good for me, with my textbook education.

 

I feel Rigo behind me, his presence towering over my small frame. I find it reassuring, though only faintly, so I follow the redhead downstairs with a silent but courteous nod in the doorman’s direction.

 

I... don’t think I had been quite prepared for what lay in wait there. I did not expect descending the staircase to feel quite like plunging into a pool from up high; a sudden rush and immediate immersion in a world of masculine depravity backed by honky-tonk playing from an unseen record player. Amidst the haze of tobacco smoke and mood lighting, there glittered amber liquid in glass tumblers and crystal earrings hung from female ears.

 

Oh yes,  _ women _ ; women as I had never seen them before, with sequinned dresses and huge waves of hair surrounding their boldly painted faces. A shrieking laugh from just one of them eclipsed Miss Amelia’s ankle petticoats in an instant. The demure, understanding nature of the nurses, obliterated. They seemed so at home here, perched on the knees of men with rumpled suits and five o’clock shadows, like pampered pets. 

 

And yet, there is hierarchy, as vicious as it is distinct. I sensed it as  soons as the calculated click of heels crossed the landing and a statuesque, smokey-eyed woman with diamonds at her throat and an dress cut so low at the back that I could see the full curve of her spine. Her appearance brings around a bout of apprehension in the others: bright pink lipstick souring into a grimace, quiet bristling coupled with forcible efforts to keep the attention of the men closest to them. 

 

The effect on men is similar; the lackeys leer and preen some more, some miming the tip of a hat despite the fact they were not wearing one. She only has eyes for Thierry; she moves past us as though we are invisible. She caresses his shaven cheek with a manicured hand, smirking as she effortlessly slinks away towards a portly man seated in an armchair on the other side of the room. I could only make assumptions on his status based upon the number of black-suited men with sunglasses standing at attention around his sitting.

 

Thierry chuckles and saunters off down the corridor, and Shins and Benny similarly disperse towards the bar while I stay and watch the world around me with an increasing sense of alienation.

 

I see another man languidly grope a woman’s silk-clad buttocks in plain view, and in that moment I knew I would never fit the bill of womanhood required here and nor did I want to. Just to witnesses these acts, steeped in sexuality as they are, makes my skin crawl. To embody them would make me vomit, I am sure of it. I had never wanted so desperately to be cut and shaved and thrust into a pair of trousers, to retreat screaming into the role of male that my genitals afforded me. I had never needed so urgently to  _ belong _ before and the sensation was shocking. 

 

I have to get rid of it as soon as possible. I can feel their eyes on me, all of them: I am a specimen under a microscope and the Adam’s apple that’s just beginning to blossom at my throat is telling. With a minute spasm, I prise open the lid of the white coat box in my arms just enough to get my fingertips in. The knife is there; I could cut it all off right now, and then all I would need in a pair of pants. I could ask to go to the bathroom to change.

 

A hand falls on my shoulder. Rigo. I still.

 

“You will not display the Wüsthof in this place,” he instructs me quietly. “You are still a stranger, and a weapon is a threat.”

 

“I don’t belong here,” I said softly: so quiet I thought he might not hear it, but he did. I felt his gaze upon my delicate fingers as they itched for the knife just out of reach.

 

“The place we belong is not here. But you’ll learn to stop caring about such things.” 

 

I can only hope so. We stand there for a moment more before a bartender drifts by with a tray of tumblers and stops to murmur something discretely into Rigo’s ear. I look up at him expectantly and he nods, stoically guiding me down the corridor and away from the bar.

 

“Red has asked to speak to you privately in his office,” he announces in his typical deep hush.

 

“Do you mean Mister Thierry?” I ask quizzically.

 

“He has many names. In public, we refer to him as Red. You may call him Mister Michaels, but you should refrain from calling him by his first name.”

 

I will. Out loud, at least; for I do not quite respect this man enough to address him so formally in my mind. Though he may be an authority figure, he is not at all like Rigo.

 

He brings me before a set of metal doors with a slit down the middle and presses a button on the wall. To my surprise, the doors slide apart to reveal a small, enclosed room.

 

“This elevator goes directly to Red’s office. You will enter and press the button marked with a three, and you will exit when the doors open again.” His hand leaves me with a final nudge inside. I enter obediently, pressing the top button as directed. I watch as the doors hid my handler from me and the room begins to ascend. It’s an unusual sensation but I suppose this is no different from a dumbwaiter or the service elevator used for a wheelchair, long ago.

 

The doors open again to reveal an opulently decorated office that doesn’t reflect the sleaze from down below at all. Lacquered cherry bookshelves with leather-bound tomes line the walls before giving way to a massive window that lets in sunlight through cream-coloured chiffon that obscures the view outside. Or rather, they prevent others from looking  _ in _ . 

 

Apart from an expensive oriental rug and the sight of Thierry’s shoes propped up on the corner of his carved desk, my view is dominated by a pair of muscular, male legs leading up to a power-blue jumpsuit that starts high up on the thigh. The stranger’s physique looked like he could very much kill a man, but I find his unorthodox dress confusing. I don’t let it show on my face. I stay quiet.

 

“These fucking moolies keep hustling on the corner of the building. You can see the goddamn track marks from the window.”

 

“Toots, you ain’t selling what could be on a corner. If I wanted to peddle trash, I’d run the nips out of Chinatown and take over their dollar-bang bookstores.”

 

“They’re bringing down the neighbourhood, Red!” the muscular man snaps, and I hear the  _ pop  _ of something he is chewing. “I had a client ask me if the fucking business was moving  _ al fresco _ . Half of em’ get spooked and stay away.”

 

“I ain’t too concerned about pussy clients,” Red chuckles.

 

The man does not seem amused in kind. He puts his hands on his sculpted hips and his tone becomes twice as clipped. “Fix it,” he orders sharply, standing in place with confident resolve. “We make you more money per hook than the fishes in the Red House.”

 

Thierry leers leaning forward menacingly as he pulls a stack of bills from his breastpocket and slaps them on the desk. “And that’s why I keep you around. Tell Benny I want the sharks to pay their pimp a little visit.”

 

Impatient, I take a step forward and they finally realise I am there, and the man looks over his shoulder with a wrinkled nose. The jumpsuit has a wide neckline that reveals a well-groomed coat of chest hair, and he sports a similarly preened handlebar moustache. Yet his face is powdered to perfection, and his toned neck is tied with a pink silk scarf. He clicks his tongue derisively at me.

 

“Who’s the babydrag? He looks dead. You starting a mortuary for the kiddy-fiddlers?”

 

“None of your fucking business, faggot,” Theirry shoots back without missing a beat. “He’s in a different arm of the business; he’s just due for a haircut. Now run along and forget you saw a goddamn thing.”

 

The man looks petulant, but he takes the money and leaves, counting the bills as he passes me. Before he presses the button he takes one final look at me before his eyes flick back to Thierry with a wicked smirk. “Call me next time you wanna fuck, honey,” he simpers sweetly, pursing his lips before the doors close.

 

Thierry’s grimace is a twist between black humour and murder.

 

It would seem that people are very willing to tolerate poor behaviour as long as there is money involved.

 

“You know what a faggot is, kid?” Thierry drawls, lowering his feet from his desk and taking up a bottle of amber liquid. He pours it generously into a crystal tumbler. As I draw closer to the desk I can already smell it: whiskey.

 

“A homosexual,” I reply matter-of-factly, and unlike the previous visitor, I take a seat in one of the leather armchairs placed in front of his desk.

 

He snickers bitterly. “If only it were that simple. You can fuck men until the fat lady sings and still not be a faggot. It’s more about how you  _ act _ than what you stick your dick into. You know what I’m sayin’?”

 

I nod, accepting the lesson, as crass as it is. It’s valuable information, after all. The textbooks speak very little of social conditioning. The homosexuals I have grown up with have all seemed to keep their inclinations a secret. I expect they would be ostracised if they did not. 

 

“But here I am still using them in the business, an’ I’m laughin; all the way to the bank. You see, they call us the Young Turks for a reason kid – we don’t do it like the old way. When you got the spicks on your left and the moolies on the right all trying to muscle in on your turf while the chinks hang around waiting to squeeze inta the cracks; you gotta be  _ innovative _ .” He laughs, swirling his drink in his glass as he sways side to side in his office chair. 

 

“You must constantly adapt to change,” I analyse. 

 

He gives one huff of laughter. “Are you a faggot, kid?” he asks with a brazen laziness. “You look like a queer in that dress. Or is this all just an act?”

 

An act. Is it all just an act? I have acted many times in my short life. Even ballet is an act to mask the pain. The real question is do I act now, or do I construct myself with blistering honesty?

 

“A man had sex with me once,” I remark softly, placing my hands in my lap and looking up at him with an unwavering gaze. It is important to have eye contact, even if my expression is detached; perhaps especially so. “Just once. You saw his blood at the foot of the stairs back at Matthias’ manor.” A faint smile tweaks the corners of my lips.

 

“Big deal; you made a guy bleed a little,” Thierry scoffs, knocking the rest of his scotch into the back of his throat with a brazen jerk of his head. “That ain’t gonna cut it in this business.”

 

“Oh no,” I said with a modest laugh, taking my time in hooking a strand of hair behind my ear. “He did that to himself. I simply helped him on his way.”

 

“The fuck didya do, then?” he drawls, pulling a cigarette from a platinum case and turning to light it with a disinterested expression.

 

I pause only because I wonder if Rigo was listening; if he has some secret way of omnipresence that affords him the ability to have eyes and ears in this office while still being downstairs. But I am confident that no one else has taken the elevator, and I know I should experiment with my new method of being disgusting very carefully.

 

I don’t ever want to be touched again.

 

“I took two razor blades and cut his eyes across the sclera,” I announce, watching his face in profile. He lets the flame burn too long on the tip of his cigarette and by the time he takes his first drag there is already a section of ash falling from it, staining his slacks. I carry on as he brushes his knee, watching me with one wary blue eye.

 

“It was fairly easy to lure him so close when he was in love with me, of course” I murmur seamlessly, for the plain truth was creating adrenalin inside me. “The jugular vein bleeds out quickly, yes, but the reaction to cut eyes is instantaneous. He ran screaming and fell down the stairs. I found the blood in the morning, but not the body. He may have crawled to safety.”

 

Thierry carries on watching me, taking a few measured drags from his cigarette. Judging from his stained fingertips, I would wager that he has a nicotine dependency. I have a fairly pessimistic view of men; everything is an addiction, a fierce need that is outside of their control. They are erratic creatures: they do not know how to simply enjoy things.

 

“You’re a creepy fucking kid, do you know that?” he jeers, but his tone is soft and hushed. 

 

“He’ll never touch me again,” I inform Thierry sincerely, and the confidence in my ghostly blue eyes is so strong that it could almost be mistaken for warmth. 

 

He rakes a hand roughly through his moussed hair and stubs out his cigarette in a crystal dish so roughly that it bent in the middle. With the same yellowed finger, he stabs at a button on his desk and then waves me towards the elevator without a word.

 

I depart politely, and by the time I reach the sliding doors, they have opened and Rigo is already standing there, his brown eyes drinking in the room intently. 

 

“Take him down to the Doctor and then get outta here, Rigo,” he says gruffly, snatching his whiskey from the desk and swiveling in his chair to face to window. “I don’t wanna see his face in the clubhouse unless it’s here on business.”

 

Rigo smiles slowly at the back of his boss’ chair and presses the button for the door to close. We descend in comfortable silence, but I find myself filled with some semblance of excitement. It has been a very long time since I have spoken to a doctor.


	17. The Right Weight

“How old are you, Aure?”

 

There is a tray of tools set out next to the padded bench I am sitting on, and I am pleased to say that I can name each and every one, from the sphygmomanometer to the otoscope. Matthias’ textbooks have been useful to me.

 

“Fourteen, I expect,” I reply quietly, somewhat distracted by the clinical setting. “I had thought you would have kept a record of my birth.”

 

The good doctor chuckles and this draws my eye to his. His hair is grey and thinning but the blue of the iris is as bright as ever. There are twin sparks of life set above the wrinkles and broken capillaries that my master never had. He introduced himself as Rudy, but I call him Dr. Rodchenko all the same. The doctorate on the wall is written in a glyph-based language that I do not understand, but with his gloved hands, his thin, wire-framed spectacles and the tools of the trade around him; I do not doubt him for an instant. He is a good doctor.

 

“We did, once. But we were told to expunge it. A necessary step for ensuring anonymity for your work.” His accent is mild but noticeable; a few skipped words and a difference in pronunciation that I assume is European in flavour. “Our best estimate is you are just over sixteen, perhaps sixteen and a half.”

 

The news doesn’t feel surprising; there is no fact to ground it, after all. I feel the same regardless; a mind too old for the young body that houses me. Trauma has caused a disparity in the ageing process, that much is clear.

 

“It makes little difference,” I say, cordially offering the inside of my elbow as the doctor picks up a syringe. I smile as I watch the needle slip in and the blood begin to fill the small vial. I like it here; the room is white, bleached, and tiled. There is a set of large industrial doors on the far wall which I suspect leads through to a garage or loading dock of some kind. Mister Shins, the speed demon, may be something of a makeshift ambulance driver for this place.

 

He follows my gaze as he caps the vial and gives my a wry smile. “With gunshot wound, is very easy to bleed out. We must operate quickly. Perhaps sometime in future I will teach you how to extract bullets - is useful skill. But for now, Mister Varelli, if you could be leaving the room. It is time for Aure to take off his clothes.”

 

Rigo, seated at a row of chairs by the door, complies without comment. 

 

I reach back to untie the sash on my dress as the door closes behind him. I have learned about medical examinations, and I trust that Rodchenko is a good doctor, but still, it is a burden; this sureness in my mind that should his touch should be anything less than clinical, I will take the scissors from the metal tray and ram the blades into his carotid artery.

 

“Socks and shoes,” the old man reminds me, writing something down on a clipboard. “Underwear is fine - you are too young for prostate exam.”

 

I don’t join in his muted mirth at the joke - there are occasions where my feet feel like the most private part of my body. Drawing my skinny knees up to my chest, I sigh and peel my socks down my ankles, setting them atop the pile of my dress.

 

“You are not first ballerina I have seen,” Dr. Rodchenko says dismissively, stepping forward. “Calluses, scar tissue, hammer toe - all very typical. Is good you did not lose any toenail.”

 

“I took care of them as best I could,” I mutter as he leans down and manipulates my toes with his hands.

 

“Very compact metatarsals, limited range of motion. Malaligned phalanges,” he notes. “You start pointe before ossification has completed, yes?”

 

“It was required of me,” I murmur, staring coldly at the wall.

 

“I am not saying was your decision,” Rodchenko replies, unaffected. He has probably dealt with countless patients far more livid than I. “But is your problem now. Big inflammation risks as you grow older, not to mention narrow shoes very hard to find in store.”

 

“Will it affect my work?” I ask bluntly. I have limited patience for his attempts at light-hearted bedside manner. I don’t need coddling.

 

“Not so much,” he reasons. “But arms might.”

 

I peer at him. “What do you mean?”

 

“You weigh less than girl of same age. Thin girl. And when you are dancing alone, you are not lifting things. Leg musculature is above average, but arms - not so much. You are not heavy or strong enough to handle recoil from firing pistol.”

 

Was this why Rigo would not take me, the first time? I was simply too small? I don’t completely grasp what the doctor is talking about; I know a pistol is a gun, but I do not know how recoil is involved in the firing process.

 

“Of course, heavier pistol has less recoil, but then pistol is being too heavy for skinny arms.” the old man gives a wry chuckle, “You see problem?”

 

“Yes,” I admit reluctantly, brooding over lost time. I lived a life of relative leisure in Matthias’ house. If I had known, if I had been told that I needed to improve something, I could have applied myself to it easily. Perhaps the focus could have prevented my unraveling. “But what is there to be done now?”

 

“I am not dietician. I specialise in surgery, general practice,” the good doctor remarks, using my shoulder as a support to straighten up. “But I tell you this. High protein, high calcium diet. No more under-eating. You are not a dancer anymore. You need to gain weight, more muscle - puberty will be helping, but push-ups will help too. Rigo will show you how.”

 

There is a knock at the door.

 

“You can put on clothes,” Rodchenko says casually, and I all but dive for my socks. 

 

I needn’t have acted so hastily; no one enters and the doctor does not open the door until my shoes are on my feet and my dress is pulled over my head. Rigo stands framed by the doorway, bearing a smock in one hand and a device with a jagged blade in the other, an electrical cord looped between his pallid fingers.

 

“This is not barber shop,” the old man grumbles, but I can already spot the resignation in his body language. 

 

“I do not want to take him back into the parlour,” the suited man explains stoically, bending to plug the device into an outlet. He pulls a chair closer to the wall. “Sit down, Aure. Bring the scissors from the tray.”

 

The good doctor pours a clear liquid from a bottle with a red cap into a small glass and watches as Rigo drapes the smock over me, securing it behind my neck. He gathers the lank tresses of my hair in one hand and cuts them loose with the scissors. I feel better for it already; I don’t need the deadweight anymore, even if I must grow heavier in other ways. 

 

“Tilt your head forward, this won’t hurt.” he instructs, and then a mechanical buzzing fills the room. He runs the device from the base of my neck upwards, and although it does not cut my skin, I can feel wisps of hair falling on my neck. He continues methodically until he has clipped all the hair from above one ear to the other, then he spends a little time shortening the hair on the top of my head with the scissors.

 

As I dutifully sweep up the remains of my childhood with a dustpan and broom, the doctor speaks.

 

“You should begin training immediately. Do not delay physical to focus on other skills - it will be the hardest. I feel I do not need to tell you to intersperse programs.”

 

“No,” Rigo agrees mildly, joining him in a single sip of the drink. “I understand what needs to be done.”

 

“Make sure he eats,” Rodchenko adds gruffly. “Teeth show no signs of bulimia, but I know ballerina. He will not eat  _ enough  _ without prompting.”

 

I feel like I could say something, but it would only sound snide. I hold my tongue and set aside the broom. He is a good doctor. I will follow his advice just as I follow Rigo’s instruction. I just hope it doesn’t involve any cream.

 

“Can you think of any loose ends?” Rigo asks later in the car. “Anyone who will remember your name or your face?”

 

“Landon,” I reply immediately, my eyes cold as I run my fingers up the short fuzz at the back of my skull. The body was never found, but if he was alive, I had made certain he would never forget my name.

 

“He has been taken care of,” Rigo says. “Any others?”

 

“What do you mean?” Narrowing my eyes, I turn away from the window to search his face. “Did you dispose of the body?”

 

“He has been taken care of,” he repeats firmly, “He will not be seen again. The company has ensured it.”

 

Turned surly by the lack of a specific answer, I brood for a moment. “I would prefer if the help at Matthias’ manor were not taken care of in quite the same way,” I measure out the words carefully. I have no idea if I am in any position to be making demands, but Miss Amelia was good to me. The cook, Ilan; miscellaneous others who dotted in and out of my life and who were sincere in their work as servants. They didn’t deserve to be ‘expunged’ for my sake.

 

“These types of people are of far less concern to us. A payment has been made to ensure compliance.” Rigo drawls, looking down at me. “Were there any other callers to the house? Any visitors, physicians, tutors?”

 

“No,” I sigh. “Matthias did not enjoy company, and I tutored myself. He was a strange man; sometimes I wonder why he bought me at all.”

 

“I had assumed it was for sexual urges that he may have not have had the gumption to act upon. That is why most men use the market.”

 

I remain silent. The words are like a smack to the face but I can’t complain about the delivery; this is the manner in which I want to be spoken to, after all. Factual, direct. Not coddled.

 

“The incident with Landon was unfortunate,” he continues. “But it is good that you were not interfered with on a regular basis.”

 

My eyes widen enough to show the whites around the icy blues. “You have no evidence of that,” I murmur hoarsely.

 

“He would not be dead otherwise.” 

 

This was the kind of innate familiarity I would grow to accept from Rigo Varelli. There was no escaping it; he simply seemed to know things, as if he could peer right into my mind. As long as he used this knowledge to guide me, I couldn’t bring myself to harbour any particular malice for him. Yet it harrows me all the same. How could be possibly know these things?

 

The car pulls up in the driveway of a white, two-storey house. Compared to a manor, it seems modest in size but well-to-do all the same. The walls of the neighbouring abodes do not touch on this street - there is space enough for a little courtyard between home and fence. The breathing room between the buildings seems so different to the cramped urban landscape we had driven through moments before. As we wait for the garage door to open, I see red roses growing beneath the front windows and an immaculately kept lawn. After we enter the driveway, Rigo waits for the garage door to close completely before he opens the car door.

 

“On rare occasion,” he begins. “Others may use this place. The Michaels Boys, or perhaps a prostitute from the Red House will spend a night in the guest room. They will not go into the basement, and they will not enter our bedrooms, but you may still encounter them in other rooms. You can rest assured that everyone with a key is trusted by our employer.”

 

“Is this not your house, then?” I enquire, pulling the coat box from the car seat beside me. It seemed like a curious living arrangement.

 

“This is home enough for us,” he says mildly. “We have other places across the country. I have never needed more permanent lodgings, and I doubt you have, either.”

 

It’s true. I never felt much distress at the market, or moving from manor to manor. I was always more preoccupied with the men around me; even the food on my plate seemed more significant than the place I slept at night. Any bed in any room would do. 

 

“Come,” Rigo calls, unlocking the door that joins the garage to the rest of the house. “I will show you to your room, then you will bathe and dress. Your physical training begins tonight.”

 

Nodding, I follow him down the corridor and up the wooden stairs. The house seems old, but the stairs do not creak. It is well maintained, with few ornaments. The decorations do not say much; generic cameos, mirrors, motif wallpaper. There are no photographs or portraits. 

 

Rigo produces a key from his pocket and unlocks a wooden door. Pushing it open, he stands aside to let me in. 

 

The walls are bare and painted off-white. There is a window set in the wall in front of a desk, and next to the desk is an old wooden wardrobe with drawers in the base. One one side of the room is a large single bed made up with starched white sheets, and on the other the floorboards give way to obsidian tiles set with a tiny drain. It is a small en suite bathroom with a shower, a toilet, and a sink below a mirrored cabinet. There is a laundry basket set beside a towel rack screwed into the wall. 

 

It is plain and impersonal, the kind of austerity one would expect at a monastery, with the basic amenities of a motel. It is so perfect, I could cry. I set the coat box down on the bed and Rigo opens the wardrobe. Slacks, shirts, shoes, belts.

 

“You will find vests, underwear and socks in the drawers,” he says as he moves back to the door. “They should fit well enough for now. We will visit a tailor tomorrow.”

 

I nod silently. Verbal agreement doesn’t feel necessary. There is a key on a long chain hanging on a hook screwed into the door frame, and I know that he has left it there for me. I loop it around my neck and feel the cool metal against my chest when I remove my dress. Holding the rumpled cotton in my hands, I look at the laundry hamper and give a gentle huff of laughter. It was only this morning, but how childish it seems to me now. I packed so meticulously, but I barely need any of these things. I open the box and remove my hairbrush and the white medical case. I fold the dress and place it on top, and then close the lid. The cardboard slides softly against the floor until the corner hits the junction of the wall underneath my bed. 

 

I don’t believe I’ve ever worn trousers before. I’m almost excited. I feel… happy.


	18. This is not a pipe

It hurts. I remember pain like this, in my feet, my calves; the back of my thighs. My biceps burn as I push the weights up, resisting the urge to grit my teeth or tense my jaw. I made a game of it to see if I could keep my composure, but it is one I often lose. The work is difficult and unfamiliar. I may have begun pointe work too early as a child but even that was not without years of daily practice. This training had no such build-up, just two small weights that felt heavier than all of me yet the numerals stamped on the side were so, so low. 

 

Over the months, they only got heavier. I got heavier. I have already outgrown the suit they tailored for me on my second day in Rigo’s care. The good doctor was right; puberty was helping, and the throes of it were just beginning. One the rare occasion I spoke up louder than a murmur, my voice would crack when I least expected it, almost always when it would be the most mortifying, it seemed. I became more quiet than ever. The Michaels Boys get uncomfortable in the same room as me if Rigo or Dr. Rodchenko aren’t near. I like this. I don’t like them; they are bawdy and loud, each one a thuggish replica of Mister Thierry with less money, rougher features and dirtier hands. 

 

Only Benny is agreeable, with his hushed, twanging accent and lickspittle charm. He’s almost reserved, in a way (if such a quality even exists within that ranks of that gang) but he does like to tell stories. As Red’s right-hand man he has a wealth of information, and that is one of my favourite things. He gives me guidance; tidbits about past antics and personalities I can use to shape the way I navigate around these strange people. 

 

Mister Shins is particularly peculiar. His feet are not organic; he lost both of them below the knee in a motorcycle accident. His nickname refers to the metal spikes studded up the front of his prosthetics. If I ever catch him unconscious, I might be able to inspect them, but that’s the only circumstance where anyone other than the good doctor could get close enough. He doesn’t talk much, especially not about that. Benny tells me that only Shins can drive his vehicles; there are functions that have been shifted to hand controls that most drivers don’t know how to use. I haven’t been in the front seat, so I’ve never noticed. Benny told me that young man once tried to steal one of the town cars but couldn’t figure it out. Shins broke his nose. Later, the same youth was recruited as a drug mule. After two jobs he was murdered by one of the Triads operating downtown. Strange, strange people. Some of them get snuffed out so quickly they almost don’t seem to matter.

 

I sink to my knees with a soft grunt, taking care that the dumbbells are touching the mat before letting them go and pushing them aside. With resignation, I place one palm after the other on the ground underneath my shoulders, stretching out my legs until my bare toes brace sufficiently against the vinyl. It is difficult and unfamiliar, but I can do it. I appreciate the routine. My arms will ache and my body will tremble with each effort to push myself back up, but I will complete fifty before I bathe. 

 

One.

  
  


Two.

 

Three.

 

Four. I have to remember to breathe.

 

Five. 

 

Six. It’s easier now that I brea-

 

“Aure.” Rigo is at the door. I tense and cringe, suspended, acutely aware of my scarred and calloused heels exposed to the air. But his gaze is fixed to the back of my head; stoic, expectant. I know it. I can feel it there. “You have a task.”

 

I let my knees sink to the mat and straighten up, turning to him with a well-practiced expression of dutiful interest that seems more composed than the flutter of excitement in my chest. Rigo is wearing a white singlet and black, pleated slacks. I am wearing a white singlet and black gym shorts. We dress alike and our relationship is clearly defined. Patron and protégé. Teacher and disciple. I will not lie: it is soothing to me, to return to the rigid structure of my childhood (with the aspects of the Butler and the Room removed, of course). And I am learning so, so much.

 

Rigo began with simple lessons. How to sharpen a knife and scrub a floor; elementary tasks that were kept away from me in my youth, perhaps in order to keep me weak. I can cook a meal now, measuring out portions to feed both Rigo and myself. The methodology of it is easy to follow and it distracts me from the mechanics of consumption that I still find so taxing at times. I always finish my meals. I have no choice; we eat together in the dining room and he watches me. But I am not resentful. I am obedient, and in return he is patient. He is a good teacher.

 

I can water roses and wash clothes. I already knew how to sew, but now I can suture. When Rigo must go away on work I am not ready for, he leaves me in the care of the good doctor in the basement of the clubhouse. He did teach me how to extract bullets. The friction of flesh against forceps is something I could never have imagined from the words on the pages of my textbooks. Dr. Rodchenko says I show promise. He is very happy to have me as an assistant. I pay eager attention to detail as I follow his instructions. I am a good protégé.

 

“You may stop for the day. Bathe and come down to the basement.” 

 

The basement. Our house has one too, and it is somehow even more alluring than the one underneath the clubhouse. I literally inspired when I first saw it; a glittering paradise of white tile and immaculate steel that smelled faintly of bleach. 

 

“You have been working,” I note, and I cannot keep the enthusiasm out of the corners of my blue eyes. There is not a speck of blood upon his person, but I know.

 

“Yes,” he replies, unguarded but without carrying on the conversation. I have been given an instruction. As I rise and pass him I catch a faint whiff of the peroxide and it thrills me. I go to the bathroom and run the shower, stripping my clothes and stepping in with a racing mind. I want to learn our work. I want to be a part of the profession; to achieve what is expected of me instead of amounting to little more than an aimless ornament, or worse, someone’s... comfort. Repulsive.

 

I redress in an identical set of singlet and shorts because it is the uniform we often wear when we are at home. When I arrive downstairs there is no body. Disappointment darkens my expression as I stare at the spotless operating table in the centre of the room. This was not what I had been hoping for.

 

“This room is not clean,” Rigo announces, stepping in behind me in his usual soundless way. I frown. I want to believe him, but I cannot help but recall a famous Magritte artwork from one of the books Matthias pressed upon me.  _ Ceci n'est pas une pipe. _

 

I choose to believe him. “Where is the stain?” I ask.    
  
“You will find it.” The reply is almost serene, but I can hear the unwavering expectation. “You have half an hour. Begin.” 

 

I give a slow nod as I survey the room. I understand now. It is one of  _ those _ tasks, not my favourite, I’ll admit, but no less necessary for the job. Rigo has told me that evidence can be everything, though from his stories it only seems to me to be the difference between a clean job and dirty money bribing the authorities. 

 

Still; I would like to be clean. I start with the obvious places. There are ridges and acloves in the legs and underside of the operating table which may not have been wiped thoroughly. As I run my fingertips over them, they come up clean. Too easy. I briefly shift the tool trolley and check the spaces the wheels occupied, but this yields no stain either. As my gaze drifts to the far outskirts of the tiled room, I wonder if perhaps he has made a mark somewhere unexpected on purpose, to test me. 

 

No; impractical. These conditions would never be found on an assignment. Rigo would gain nothing by sabotaging me. The answer must be logical.

 

Blood spatter does not work in this way. I know this. I stop to recollect my thoughts. I look up to the ceiling. Nothing, of course. I know Rigo does not work in this way either. Everything is calculated and precise; the notion of a spraying artery in our basement is laughable, as if we were running some kind of cheap slaughterhouse. No, while I do not doubt that he would have squeezed his towering frame under the furniture to check these small spaces, I don’t think any bodily fluids were ever here. The table is modeled from one which you’d find in a morgue; a gentle slope in the seamless porcelain surface finishes in a small, round hole. It is not affixed to permanent plumbing; there is plastic tubing that we dispose of regularly. All biological matter would have been expertly contained with any remaining traces scrubbed clean down the tiny drain beneath my feet.

 

My huff of laughter almost winds me. I have to remember to breathe. Crouching, I can see the minute difference in the shade of the four steel bolts around the edge of the drain. Freshly replaced. The little silver grate seems clean, but I can’t be certain with the inky shadows of the narrow drainpipe making it difficult to see.

 

“Rigo,” I call over my shoulder. “There is a tool, used for these… screws.”

 

“A screwdriver,” he informs me patiently, his still facial features giving away no news of my progress.

 

“Yes,” I follow on. “Where is it?”

 

“You’ll find one on the hook labelled ‘PHS’ on the leftmost tool rack in the garage.”

 

I leave to collect it. It is smaller than I expected, but that suits me perfectly. The plastic handle is hard in my hand as I wrestle with the screws. On my first attempt I simply tightened it further against the drain. That one was the most difficult to twist out. I work all the others to the left from the beginning and they are much less of a chore. Dipping the tip of the screwdriver into one of the slats in the drain, I prise it out of the floor and flip it over on the tiles.

 

Congealed blood.

 

“Twelve minutes. Very good, Aure.”

 

I smile faintly as I stand and take it to the sink to scrub it clean. After I am done, I check my fingernails then plug the sink and fill it halfway. I add a splash of bleach before I pull the plug and watch it spiral down to flush the S bend. When I am done, I find that Rigo has left the room and returned with a new set of screws. He may be the only person who can slip my notice.

 

“Put the drain back in its place,” he tells me in his gentle, articulate voice. “Then wash your hands and meet me in parlour.”

 

I do more than he instructs me because he should not need to instruct me on such finer details. After using the screwdriver to return the metal disc to its rightful place, I wash and dry the tool and hang it back on the correctly labelled hook in the garage. Back in the workroom I wash my hands right up to the elbow with all the thoroughness of a nurse in an operating theatre. 

 

When I near the parlour, music is playing. There is a grand old record player betwixt bookcases on the wall opposite the fireplace, far larger and more opulent than the stark machine used to substitute the Butler’s piano playing in my childhood. From its golden trumpet, a woman sings of  _ Maria _ . It is a familiar work of Schubert’s, though I am nowhere near knowledgeable enough to recognise the singer. I know only that she is a talented mezzo-soprano; evidently a favourite of Rigo’s. Music appears to be his one indulgence. Seated in the red velvet armchair closest to it, his eyes are closed. As I draw closer I am able to make out the dark, spidery lines of his eyelashes against his pallid skin before his eyes open and focus on me.

 

“Are you cruel, Aure?” he asks. His brow is not furrowed when he asks it; indeed he inquires with all the serenity of quizzing a tailor on the fabrics he had available for suit.  _ ‘Do you have such a thing in burgundy?’, _ he might ask. ‘ _ Would you cut out a man’s eyes? _ ’

 

Yes. I know the answer implicitly, but I take umbrage with the finer details. “Not without provocation,” I sniff, straightening out my spine. 

 

“Would instructions suffice as provocation?” Rigo presses on, unabashed.

 

“With orders?” A reluctant grin flickers on my face. I’d give a shrug if I weren’t already feeling so haughty. There are several antique seats to choose from in the parlour, but I remain standing, managing to relax my lips into a neutral line. “I suppose I could be cruel, then, yes.”

 

“How cruel?” he asks me. The piano fades out as the record finishes, leaving nothing but a soft crackling in its wake.

 

It is an effort now, not to smile again. I keep my mask. “Cruel enough,” I say quietly. “Enough to kill a man, certainly.”

 

“It is not murder I am most concerned with,” Rigo explains with the cadence of someone who might survey the room as he said it, but he keeps looking right at me. It is almost unsettling how he can stare so long and yet not give me the sensation of being scrutinized at all. Perhaps it is because I still feel hollow on the inside. “Do you think you could be cruel enough  _ not _ to kill a man? To work with living subjects?”

 

I begin to understand what he asking and I let my gaze slide to the yawning mouth of the record player, enjoying the faint, fuzzy silence. “Yes.”

 

“They may beg you for mercy; cry, and tell wild stories of their families. They may even be entirely innocent.” Rigo’s eyebrows quirk, but only once. “Would you sympathise, Aure, or would you carry out your task?”

 

“The men I have encountered so far are hardly worthy of sympathy,” I scoff defensively.

 

“True, but you have not met many yet. One day you may have a good man on the slab.”

 

“I have never encountered a good man.” My chuckle fades as I realise that I am in the company of a man right now, but I let it go without clarification or adjustment. It’s true. We are not good men. Rigo may be good to me, but not to others. We are both harbingers of despair.

 

“I am not surprised you feel this way,” he remarks, reaching out to lift the needle on the record player. The quiet crackling is replaced by silence save for the steady tick of a grandfather clock.  “But there  _ are  _ good men, regardless. Could you be cruel to them, Aure?”

 

My eyes narrow bitterly, thinking of Landon and how he would try to bargain. “Yes.”

 

He reads how my expression shifts. “It could be anyone, Aure. Imagine people you do not despise. Benny, or the good doctor.”

 

“Or you,” I follow on the trail of thought and meet his gaze with a weary look in my eyes because the questioning is repetitive, designed to gnaw away at layers of the subject until it hits an uncomfortable and difficult core. This is not academics; there is no simple solution in matters of ethics. “Would I do it to you, is that the question? Is this is a test of loyalty? Am I to serve you, or our employers?”

 

A flicker of a smile forms in his slate eyes. “You realise the answer couldn’t possibly be vouched for if I were to say anything other than our employers.”

 

“It could,” I retort. “I do as I am told. If you provide for me and show no signs of unraveling, I see no reason to deviate.”

 

He tilts his head briefly as he regards me. “Very well,” he murmurs, rising. “Begin preparing dinner. Tomorrow we will leave the house at 8 o’clock. There is a man we need to collect. I will be in my study.”

 

Whatever the test was, it appears I passed. He never did answer the question, but I feel satisfied that I had made my position clear. I will do what is required of me. The intrinsics of morality or relationships do not concern me on the surface. If I scratched a little deeper, I suspect I would have some trouble murdering a man like Rigo, for I have never encountered anyone with whom I felt such an immense sense of affinity. It feels like a small piece of me is invested in him, and I don’t like the idea of carving it out. 

 

Chicken, on the other hand, is something I now carve with confidence. I steam some vegetables and serve the meal on a set of plain china plates. By the time I set the dining table, Rigo has come downstairs. He is punctual and I can’t recall ever needing to call him. The household flows smoothly in that way.

 

Rigo does not like to be disturbed in his study. I may knock on the door if the matter is important and he will exit, but I am never to enter. It may be the one place he has where he collects his thoughts. Admirably, it is not at the bottom of a bottle. We do have one decanter of whiskey in the parlour that is served to visitors. Rigo does not imbibe, and this is good. I do not like men who drink.

 

“Do you have your kit prepared?” he asks only once his plate is empty. 

 

Sipping water, I nod as I swallow. The kit is always prepared, ever since Rigo taught me how to prepare it. “Yes. Do I need to anticipate any unusual circumstances?”

 

“No,” Rigo remarks in what is closed to a bored drawl. “This will be fairly routine. The Triads have been overstepping their mark again. Normally this would not warrant the severity of our methods but Mister Thierry holds them in particularly spiteful regard ever since the shooting of his father.”

 

“Don Michaels is dead?” I raise my eyebrows, a piece of broccoli suspended on my fork before me. Realising my inelegance, I lower it to listen. 

 

“No,” Rigo explains, shaking his head. “Just wounded and old. He seldom leaves the family estate these days.” This makes more sense to me. Thierry does not conduct himself with the manner that would be required of him if he had actually inherited his father’s title. His sleazy ‘Young Turks’ operations would certainly fall flat without his continued attention, and he would not be around the clubhouse as often if he was the Don.

 

“I see,” I murmur, thoughtfully stroking the stem of my fork. “It seems… excessive to me, that mister Thierry would employ our services just to send a message over territory.”

 

“He is an excessive man,” Rigo nods, standing and beginning to wash his empty plate. Knowing that I would be told to stop if I attempted to rise before my own food was gone, I bow my head and aim to finish everything as Rigo continues. “Yet he agrees to our excessive prices, so we will do his bidding. You will appreciate our lucrative contract should we ever have to relocate or purchase new equipment.”

 

He is right. Rigo is seldom  _ not  _ right. I lift my head with a final swallow of broccoli and make sure his dark eyes have noticed my clean plate before I stand and go to the sink. I wash my plate. I say goodnight. I go upstairs; bathe. Even as I lay my head down to sleep I feel a tension in my collarbones (clavicles) and I think it may be anticipation.


	19. Treachery of Images

There is a man between my thighs but I am not afraid. It is his skin that is covered in a sheen of sweat, not mine. I am simply observing his face; we are both fully clothed. I am above him. His left arm is restrained tightly at both the wrist and the elbow joint. Longer ropes had to be used to reach the railings on the other sides of the old dental chair. The room is ceramic and somewhat grimy; far less well-equipped than home. A throwaway location. I dig deeper with the blade.

 

He screams; loud, angry, and in words that are unintelligible to me. 

 

“... More swearing,” the man in the corner says wearily. Slouching in his chair, his head leans against the tiled wall, facing away from us. I am told they usually expect Michaels Boys to watch, but this one is older and thinner than most of them, probably employed solely for his skill in Chinese dialects. We don’t make him watch; if we did, he may just lose his usefulness. By the look of him, just the sounds alone are taking their toll. 

 

I don’t need direction for my next move; the instruction has already been made clear and I pick up the scalpel with a smile. The expression is not seen by anyone as the motorcycle helmet I wear has a mirrored visor. I expect all mister Shěn can see is his own distorted reflection. He tries to tense his forearm to guard against the incoming pain. It doesn’t work; a few seconds after my silver blade lathes away at his skin, the spasming begins. He breathes rapidly, biting back screams, but I am able to keeping working fairly easily. We bound his arm so securely to the table that the limb has virtually no range of movement. 

 

I change tool and pluck up the specimen I have removed. Unsupported by its network of tissue, the piece of skin flops backward and forward around the point of my tweezers. A blue dragon’s eye stares at me angrily before I delicately lay it across the bed of ice in the bowl next to the man’s shoulder. Sashimi is neither Chinese nor human flesh, but I draw the visual comparison all the same. Mister Thierry harbours hostility towards all creeds except his own, it seems, however none more so than the Asiatic. His hatred makes him generalize with reckless abandon, but Rigo has taken care to teach me the differences. It was the Yakuza that crippled Thierry’s father, however it is the Triads that give the Michaels family far more trouble, these days. The Japanese organisation has kept its distance for several years now with barely a whisper of interaction. I hear rumours that it is because of something that Rigo did.

 

“Ask him again,” Rigo says quietly. His words are clear through the black mesh of the fencing mask obscuring his entire face. 

 

The man in the corner repeats an interrogation in a tongue I don’t understand, but I know their general meaning. We want the locations of all of their operations on this side of the river so they can be snuffed out. That’s all; it seems like such a trivial thing when you say it out loud. Honestly, I am surprised that mister Shěn is not more forthcoming. None of us will be present for the dirty work of storming the laundromats and shaking up sleazy restaurants - even mister Shěn could be clear out of the country by the time the Michaels Boys got themselves organised to strike. The information would be so easy to give, but he won’t share it. I wonder what kind of mental sutures are in place to keep him from being underhanded. The notion perplexes me, but I think it must be sheer loyalty.

 

Mister Shěn has no wife, no children; no brothers save for those he swore allegiance to through crime. We checked. With nothing else to threaten except his person, I chose the tattoo to begin with because it seemed like something important to him. Additionally, it is non-fatal to interfere with. Mister Shěn should be relieved that our faces are concealed. However, if he does not tell us what we want to hear soon, I will ask Rigo’s permission to cut out the lens from his left eyeball. 

 

He screams something new in reply, growing frantic. 

 

“He’s starting to not make any sense.” The man in the corner complains.

 

“Aure,” Rigo prompts me calmly. 

 

It is time to change direction slightly. A lull between carving.

 

I take my pick of a different piece of skin, all equally sized, from the ice bowl. The tweezers are somewhat unnecessary for this task; I could just use my gloved hands, but I enjoy the careful use of tools. They help me feel more accurate; more clean. I lay the epidermis across one of the raw, red squares I have carved out of his flesh. A clawed foot; a perfect fit. Tiny, careful sutures will hold it in place. It is not the most medically modern way to graft skin, but without local anaesthetic it is one of the most painful. Left uninterrupted, I replace everything I had cut away, each piece in the wrong place. Mister Shěn’s tattoo has become quite the mismatched mozaic.  

 

When I have nothing left to do and we still have no answer to our questions, I lift the helmet just enough to free my lips. Breathing raggedly. mister Shěn stares up at my smooth skin with helpless incredulity. He probably did not expect me to be so young. He stares, transfixed, at my lips, his dread manifesting in a fresh sheen of sweat.

 

“Rigo,” I say softly as my pale hands pick up a swab to wipe the tweezers clean. “Secure his head. I am interested to see exactly what gives an iris its pigment.”

 

Mister Shěn tenses, his dark eyes darting between me and the corner. When the man there translates for the benefit of his comprehension, he shudders and grits his teeth together, feeling Rigo’s palm press suddenly upon his head as cloth bindings wrap over his broad chin, securing it to the leather headrest behind him. I feel his pulse quicken at the speed of Rigo’s efficient binding. Underneath my cool facade, my own excitement is growing. I do not have a lens expressor, a tool used in cataract extractions, but given that I am not expected to leave mister Shěn with sight in the eye, I believe I can make do with a number 10 scalpel and a pair of tweezers. 

When I use the thumb and forefinger of one hand to part his eyelids and bring the tip of the blade to his eye that is when he draws a breath and starts screaming as best he can with his jaw restrained.

 

The locations spill forth like a flood after that; I’m almost disappointed that I didn’t get to mutilate him as promised. I know I should take pride in the fact that we extracted the information we were paid for, but I have certain medical fascinations that are difficult to fulfill when we live in such careful isolation.

 

“You are disappointed,” Rigo comments quietly, some time later as we three sit in the back seat of the black town car which came to collect us at Rigo’s request. 

“Not entirely,” I reply. “I did get to administer an injection, after all.” Mister Shěn is in the trunk, his wounds bandaged and extremely disoriented but ultimately conscious thanks to 10mg/mL of ketamine. It will prevent him from creating too much noise while we travel to our initial destination.

 

“Is there a particular reason you selected the eye?”

 

“Sight is important,” I repress a shrug but not the faint furrow in my brow. “As he did not feel strongly enough about the tattoo, I determined that threatening his vision would be the logical escalation. I was correct.”

 

“But you are disappointed,” Rigo repeats with a single nod, closing his eyes.

 

“There will be other opportunities,” I whisper, gazing out of the window.

 

“The punishment is a myriad of swords, you know,” the man from the corner pipes up with a hollow laugh, slumped back in his seat. 

 

I look over to him curiously, volume returning to my voice. “What do you mean?”

 

There is a ghost of a smile on his lips when he says it but no light in his tired eyes. “It is one of the Triad’s thirty-six oaths. Disclosing secrets. He broke it. Now he will be killed by  _ myriads _ of swords… or five thunderbolts. There’s really only two ways to go.”

 

“Mister Shěn must have been very fond of his eyes,” I remark idly. 

 

I consider what the translator has told me for the rest of our journey to the drop-off point. It seems like a poor trade to me. If myriads of swords or five thunderbolts are the primary means of death, what could the benefits of belonging to the Triads possibly be? I am all but certain they wouldn’t balance such a gruesome. Far better, I surmised, to have an arrangement like mine. I perform tasks in exchange for food, shelter and guidance. My cause of death will most likely be a bullet; if I am lucky, it will be a bullet to the brain. If not, bleeding out is not so terrible a fate. Certainly not as terrible as myriads of swords.

 

Rigo stops the car and allows the translator to get out at the edge of Chinatown, which is still bustling even at this late hour. I watch as the suited man lights a cigarette and melds seamlessly into a throng of other pedestrians with glossy, black hair. After a moment more, the car pulls away again and we carry on to our second destination. 

 

It is only a short trip but the change in scenery is distinct; it is dark and quiet as the car creeps into the parking lot of a warehouse in the industrial district. One would be forgiven for thinking there wasn’t a soul around for miles. 

 

“Aure,” Rigo addresses me as he shuts off the engine and casually inspects his revolver. “Let Mister Shěn out of the trunk and remove his blindfold.”

 

The second part of the instructions gives me pause. “Without the masks?” I clarify, brow furrowed with concern.

 

“The masks are not required,” Rigo drawls, checking the bullets in the cylinder.

 

I suppose he means to kill him. What does it matter if a dead man has seen our faces? And the fact that Mister Shěn’s hands and feet are bound means the task has minimal risk. Without another word, I press my lips together and get out of the car, circling round and popping the trunk open to find the bound man squirming inside. With some effort, I haul him upright into a sitting position and pull the blindfold away from his glaring eyes. 

 

In that moment of silent staring, I feel something almost like pity. Pity, or perhaps just efficiency. I know I can provide a much c 

 

“Would you like me to kill you?” I ask, inclining my head.

 

He recoils in disgust, his bound hands spasming in his lap. “ _ Yúchǔn de háizi _ ,” he spits. 

 

Curious. His reply is too coherent to be detached from understanding. Too coherent at all, actually, considering the dose of drugs I administered personally. Suspicious, I frown at Rigo as he comes around from the driver’s side of the car.

 

“He’s coherent,” I prompt him, not without an accusatory tone. “And he understands English.”

 

“Yes,” Rigo answers, “The concentration of the ketamine was far less than marked.”

 

“I would prefer if you did not tamper with my medical kit,” I reply immediately. The indignity of it. How am I supposed to perform my tasks without confidence in my tools?

 

Rigo is not phased; of course he isn’t. “It was necessary,” he replies in his usual, serene way. He turns to address Mister Shěn. “ _ Tā háishì gè xuéshēng _ ,” he says. “ _ Wǒ xiāngxìn bǎochí pínghéng _ ?” 

 

It is as if the world shifts. The foreign sounds come so easily from Rigo’s mouth. My pulse quickens as I realise that the translator, the masks; all of it was an act. 

 

It is not the revolver in Rigo’s hand now, but a knife. He uses it to cut the bonds holding Mister Shěn’s wrists. The Chinese man gives a grunt of agreement, although his nose wrinkles when he turns hand to stare at the bandage on his forearm. My choice of torture must have been an unknown variable in this arrangement. This betrayal. Thierry would butcher us for this, I’m certain. 

 

But only if he knew about it.

 

_ Am I to serve you, or our employers? _

 

Of course. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as it dawns on me. We’re double agents. Well, not in the strictest definition of the term, since we are not employed by a government agency, but without my dictionary at hand it is the closest description I’m able to arrive at. I loathe this. How could he have kept such a thing from me?

 

I’ve missed part of their conversation, not that it matters. I couldn’t understand it if I tried. Mister Shěn is standing tall now, with all the confidence you’d expect of a man who knew his ordeal was over. 

 

_ “Gōngsī gǎnxiè nín de hé guī _ ”, Rigo tells the man, shaking his hand in an odd way, with open fingers. 

 

“ _ Xièxiè _ .” With one final, cold glance in my direction, Mister Shěn turns on his heel and sets off towards the warehouse. My mouth hangs open as I watch him leave. Turning to Rigo, I am desperate for some kind of explanation but he does not even look at me as he closes the trunk.

 

“Get in the car,” he says.

 

Evidently, our work is complete. We go home. I hold my tongue even though it is burning with questions. Why are we so committed to the illusion of allegiance to the Michaels family? Why has my time been squandered on mostly physical training when it could have easily been interspersed with language studies? Whose interests could all of this subterfuge possibly serve?!

 

My stewing is deliberately ignored for now. In the driveway of the townhouse, backed by the golden-pink glow of the late afternoon sky, Rigo stops and exchanges my helmet and toolkit for a crisp hundred-dollar bill. 

 

“Fetch the groceries, Aure,” he instructs.

 

Seething without sound, I accept the money, walking down the lane towards the urban supermarket two blocks away. This is a task commonly assigned to me; being alone felt highly unusual at first. It is not the same as being alone within a master’s mansion or their expansive grounds, but I do not mind. I expect this task was given to me to allow time to calm down. So be it. 

 

Beef, chicken, liver, spinach, broccoli, carrots, apples, oatmeal… milk. Eggs. I usually enjoy the fact that no one talks to me in the aisles and the weary cashier makes no attempt at small talk when I pay for my purchases. Today, it is downright appreciated. There is only one more obstacle where I may be disturbed.

 

Whether by mere trial and error or actual knowledge that the residents nearby would prefer not to  call the police to have them removed, there are often homeless youths camped in the alleyways between the supermarket and home. Unlike older specimens I have observed, they stick together in tight clusters whenever anyone else draws near, fear showing in their watchful eyes. Sometimes, they yell. It is the only uncomfortable part of an otherwise serene walk, but despite everything, I make sure not to increase my walking speed as signs of panic would only make me more conspicuous. 

 

There is a grubby, pink shoe on the ground at the mouth of the alleyway. I suppose it was the brightness of its colour that grabbed my attention. I fight the instinct to pause when I see it, but I can’t say why it bothers me so. Breathing in deeply through my nose, I continue my calm, well-practiced gait across the mouth of the alleyway, scanning the rest of the grubby passage for signs of life but finding nothing. 

 

Perhaps these recent revelations have made me uneasy. I push it to the back of my mind, when I slip through the front door and return to my routine.  _ Ave Maria _ is playing in the parlour. I will unpack the groceries and wash up before preparing dinner.


	20. The Company

Dinner is chicken and steamed broccoli. The chicken was grilled with a splash of lemon juice for taste but nothing else. Cuisine and complex recipes are unnecessary trifles: we treat food as sustenance and nothing more. Throughout the meal, I am burning with expectations for answers, or at least discussion. Rigo says nothing. 

 

In the morning, he says nothing: a written note left on the kitchen counter, in the designated spot for communications, instructs me to take one full glass of milk with my standard breakfast, study until I stop feeling ill, then commence my exercise routine. Rigo has gone away to conduct undisclosed business for the day.

 

I am vexed, to say the least. The glass of milk, especially, rubbed salt in the wound. If the note had not itemised a recovery time for it, had not acknowledged how difficult it was for me to tolerate that accursed, rich, white liquid, I might have rebelled. But it did, so I drank: half the glass before I ate (one apple, one boiled egg, one cup oatmeal) and half after, because it was easier that way. Afterwards, I would have certainly vomited if I attempted any pushups. 

 

I sequestered myself to the desk in my room to read through some of my medical textbooks for the better part of the morning. Once an honest self-assessment indicated the uncomfortable feeling of _fullness_ in my stomach had subsided, I dressed in my exercise clothes and distracted myself from the questions burning inside me with my workout routine. 

 

Lunch was a double serving of braised liver and sliced raw carrots, as prescribed. There’s less and less to distract me as the day drags on.

 

Our employers. He’d said we were to serve our employers. There is no doubt that the Michaels family pays us handsomely for our services, so if that is not employment, what is? Do we also receive funding from the Triads? Rigo is fluent in a Chinese dialect: I don’t know which one, but I heard him speak _something_. 

 

What else is he hiding?

 

I came out of my room as soon as I heard the front door open. Looking down at him from the landing, I see a twinkling in his slate eyes, as though he were expecting me to be waiting so urgently for his return all alone. Of course he did: he knows me well. It was cruel of him to keep me waiting all day like this.

 

“I needed to collect something,” he tells me, inclining his head towards the briefcase tucked under his arm. “Dress for supper. After we eat and the dishes are done, come and meet me in my office.”

 

Rigo’s office is off limits. I am forbidden to enter without his direct instruction, and here he is, giving it to me. Even standing outside the door, I can feel an aura of importance emanating from the room. Thierry’s office at the clubroom held none of the gravitas that this room does: to him, that room may as well have been any other office one would find in an expensive hotel. It was temporary to him, one could tell just by looking at it. No… this office, unlike Thierry’s, was far more personal. A sanctum.

 

I’ve seen a man’s personal sanctum before, of course, but it belonged to Matthias. I spent enough time there myself, poring over his glorified Grimms Brothers tales shoe-horned into socio-political stances, to recall the room easily. Walls crowded with shelves containing equal measures of leather-bound books and eccentric curious, and a great wooden writing desk positively drowning in papers.

 

Rigo’s office is nothing like this. For one, it is clean; as ordered as Matthias’ was messy. There is just one bookshelf on the far wall, lined with a series of books that scream ‘non-fiction’ just from a glance at their spines. The adjacent walls are flanked not by bookshelves, but by filing cabinets, each drawer sporting its own lock. This is the office of a man who keeps secrets, and keeps them well. I expect that even if I did break into the filing cabinets, all documents would be sufficiently redacted so as not to compromise their contents.

 

There is a clock on the wall, but it is silent; the ticking mechanism has been disabled, though it is still able to keep the time. The desk is impressively bare, save for the briefcase directly in front of Rigo’s seat, and one, lone curio: a human skull, completely stripped of flesh, mounted on a block of varnished wood. It faces outward, towards the empty chair on the other side of his desk. Its purpose is to intimidate, perhaps. That won’t work on me, but I expect I’m not the only one to take meetings with Rigo in this room. 

 

I shut the door behind me and walk towards the desk. I won’t take a seat unless I am told. What Rigo does next, however, makes my eyes bulge.

 

He opens the briefcase with a click and produces a block of wood, but this one isn’t carved and glossed, like the base of the skull. He closes the briefcase and sets in on the desk in front of me, turning the block in front of me to reveal the face of it. There, pinned against the smooth surface of the bark as though it were a butterfly specimen on display, is a razor blade. My heart drops as I realise the section of wood has been cut out of tree roots. This is the razor blade from my white case; the very same one I used to cut Landon’s eyes.

 

“Your methods have improved,” Rigo praises me. “You did far better, this time, than the smothering incident. It took over seventy-two hours for this to be located. Were the matter not so sensitive, the team would have abandoned the search after that timeframe.”

 

“Am I to be afforded no privacy in my life?” I ask, shaken and affronted all at once.

 

“No,” Rigo informs me serenely. “All aspects of your life are up for scrutiny. It is part of being a slave.”

 

I feel my face burning. It is not the reminder that I am, in fact, a slave and not a simple protege that frustrates me. I had been so sure that I had found the most perfect hiding spot for the evidence: one that could never have been found. How could I have known I was up against not just Rigo, but an entire team of dogged professionals?

 

“How was it found?” I whisper.

 

“Metal detectors,” Rigo tells me. “A sweep of the grounds was ordered after the house came up dry. If that had failed, the team would have started dismantling plumbing.”  
  
Drains. How aggravating to think of it now, instead of in the moment. If I had dropped it down a drain, perhaps it would have simply floated away. Would that have been possible? I could have attached it to something, some kind of paper boat or a knotted plastic bag filled with air to make it float. No… that would have made it far too easy to find if and when it washed up on the edge of some kind of gutter or outlet. 

 

“The correct method,” Rigo chimes in, as though he can read my mind, “is nitric acid. It would have dissolved the blade in a matter of hours. However, the required materials were not available to you.”

 

So I had no hope of winning, then. I’m not sure when it became a contest, anyway: me versus the world, I expect. I do so enjoy my secrecy, and here I am, finding out that I have none.  
  
“Does this upset you?” he asks me.

 

“Irritates me,” I correct him in a droll tone. “There was no nitric acid in that house.”

 

“I’ll rephrase,” Rigo carries on serenely. “Does it upset you that your life is not your own, that you are property? Does it distress you that matters such as your own privacy or pursuits of passion will always be completely disregarded?” 

 

No, it doesn’t. It has always been like this. I am very adaptable: everything up until this moment has proved that. Sometimes, the situations I adapt to may give me an illusion of being something other than a slave: a doll, a muse, a disciple… but that’s all that it is. An illusion. I see that now.

 

“No,” I answer.

 

“Good,” Rigo smiles. “Your upbringing was successful, in that regard.”

  
I raise my eyebrows. “Was is unsuccessful in other regards?”

 

“Yes,” he says. 

 

It’s heavy news to hear. “Explain,” I say, abandoning all proper behaviour for a man of my status. I deserve to know. If Rigo attempts to send me to bed not knowing, I may very well smother him in his sleep, too.

 

“The methods used to raise you were unorthodox and untested,” Rigo tells me. “Entirely experimental: the only reason it was allowed at all was out of respect for the seniority of the man you called Master, who had become too old to be otherwise useful.”

 

I am incensed. One of my hands balls into a fist where I stand; it’s easier to keep the left hand calmer than the right. That geriatric, arrogant fool: he’d tainted me before I even had any understanding of what all of this was. I still don’t! I felt dirty, somehow, like I had a black, unsightly mould growing amongst my bone marrow, impossible to fix now that I was fully formed. A failure before I’d even begun.

 

“I would like you to scream for me, Aure,” Rigo says, hands clasped in front of him on the desk.

 

I fix him with wide, furious eyes. I’ve never screamed, not since I was a little boy being dragged to the Room. I don’t need to be reminded of that weakness now. “I won’t.”

 

“It’s an important technique to release an outburst of emotion.” 

 

Fuck his outburst of emotion. I grab the skull on the desk by its cranium, heavy base and all, and hurl the thing at the wall with a grunt. There’s a loud _crack_ and it drops to the floor, leaving a sizeable dent in the plaster. 

 

Rigo turns his head in the direction that the skull flew, blinking for a moment before he looks back at me. “That will suffice,” he says, gesturing to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

 

I sit. I feel ill again.

 

“I understand why you may feel hopeless after this news,” Rigo says, leaning back in his seat. “However, we don’t believe that your defects will prevent you from serving us.”

 

I want desperately to hear what these defects are, even though it may ruin me, but Rigo’s phrasing has caught my attention. “And who is this ‘we’?” I ask in a hoarse whisper.

 

“The Company,” Rigo tells me, that same light from before shining in his eyes once again.  
  
“Another crime family, then,” I surmise, looking away, deflated.

 

“Not at all,” Rigo smiles. “The Michaels family has a face, a Don; it is known of by members of the general public. The Company is an unknown collective, far greater than the sum of its parts.”

 

So, another crime family, then. I keep the repetition in my head, not quite distraught enough to lapse into reckless insolence. Throwing the skull really did help me calm down. I look at the dent in the wall now, feeling tired despite my relatively leisurely day. Anticipation is its own form of labour, I expect, but this kind of revelation has me emotionally wrecked.

 

“Then what is wrong with me?” I ask despondently. “My feet, for one, I expect.”

 

“‘Wrong’ is a strong term,” Rigo muses, resting his chin on the back of his interlaced fingers. “We prefer to use the term ‘outside of specification’. It is not ideal that you were physically deformed, but it was to be expected when your Master insisted on incorporating ballet into your upbringing to reinforce your discipline. We suspect his personal preferences influenced his decisions.”

 

Preferences. I swallow a scoff, pitching slightly in my seat as though I were suppressing a cough. The Master’s so-called ‘preferences’ for ballet were more like a hellbent obsession: my life revolved around those fucking shoes. I bled for them. Years later, I can still remember the feeling of a leotard against my skin.

 

“The malnutrition, too, was unfortunate,” Rigo carries on. “Recommendations were made after your trip to the hospital for anaphylactic shock, but few had the authority to ensure that those recommendations were followed.”

 

“Until I took that authority away from him.” I finally meet Rigo’s gaze again, jaw clenched. “Will I be punished for that?”

 

“Not at all,” Rigo answers, breaking into a grin. “The Company is many things, Aure, but it is not the sort of organisation that excuses its members from the consequences of their own actions. We are not affiliated with the government.”

 

He chuckles as though he had made some kind of joke. I suppose I don’t know enough about the world to share in his humour. In any case, questions are racing through my mind faster than I can catch them and put them into order. Just one, however, comes to the forefront of my mind.

 

“My hair was long,” I blurted, chasing the thought for another moment even after I started speaking. “I was dressed as a girl for almost everything, but they told me I was a boy. Why? What purpose could it possibly serve?” I do so hate meaningless things.

 

“Ah,” Rigo says keenly. “Now that is a curious question. It has been discussed at length, and we believe that it may have been an attempt to confuse your gender identity in order to cultivate artificial asexuality.”

 

I cough. “Asexual reproduction?” The notion was absurd beyond reason.

 

“The word has definitions outside of your medical textbooks,” Rigo chuckles, shaking his head. “It is a complete lack of sexual desire in individuals. It’s held as a gold standard for operatives, for reasons which I’m sure are obvious. However, it occurs too rarely by natural means. It’s never been consistently achieved by any method yet. Chemical castration has come close, but performing it on a child inhibits puberty, and performing it on an adult has proven ineffective.”

 

I am equal parts fascinated by the methods behind the madness, and disturbed by the implications. It’s a ridiculous thing. Yet it worked, didn’t it? I cannot recall ever having any sexual interest in anyone. If there was every any hope of it, it died after what Landon did to me. “Am I not asexual?” I ask Rigo, as if he could confirm such a thing with this seemingly infinite knowledge he has of me.

 

“That remains to be seen,” Rigo answers calmly. “You are young, still. You’ve barely been exposed to the general population. Not to mention that the sexual trauma has no doubt given you a bad taste for any kind of intimacy, with anyone.”

 

My skin crawls. Of course he knows about that, too. I look away, refusing to even acknowledge the rape with words. “What other methods did he use?” I croak. I know what he did, of course, but I think I would feel better if I heard the reasoning behind them. What purpose did the Room serve? Why does that which is ugly not deserve to be seen?

 

“Unfortunately, not any that I can comment on,” Rigo sighs. “The records of your Master’s methodology were destroyed shortly after his death. There were no meaningful statements in the fragments that were salvaged. They were expunged out of pride, we think.”

 

Not my Master’s pride: the Butler’s. I remember him burning papers in a bin, on the day Rigo and the Michaels Boys came to fetch me. It’s not hard to guess why he did it. I was a failed experiment, wasn’t I? He loved him so much, he couldn’t bear the thought of his methods being mocked for their failure. I never thought that I could feel a fresh wave of gladness for having taken my Master away from the Butler, but here I am. At the same time, I feel tense. I can feel the heat prickling up and down the sides of my neck.

 

“So here I am,” I announce, making a conscious effort to breathe evenly so my voice did not crack. “A defect. And I suppose you have been assigned to me as penance for some kind of misconduct?”

 

“Quite the opposite,” Rigo counters. 

 

“So you’re the best in the Company?” I look at him. If he confirmed it, I’d believe him.

 

“‘The best’ is not a useful description,” Rigo explains, inclining his head. “But I am in the top fifth percentile of current operatives. My mission failure rate is less than two percent. I am a capable and reliable teacher.”

 

He speaks the same way I do, when I am consoling myself, when I am validating my own virtues. In that moment, I feel closer to Rigo than anyone else in the world. “Teach me what?” I ask, barely daring to foster hope in my heart.

 

“Everything,” Rigo answers frankly. “You are already making steady progress. Even your upper body strength has improved,” he comments, turning his head to nod towards the damage on the wall. Having attention called to my physical outburst slightly dampens the praise, but I have no business being choosy in my current state.

 

“Thank you,” I murmur.

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Rigo warns me. “There are many skills you are required to learn, and without your records, we must conduct an additional assessment to determine if you are suitable for work in the field. The tests will not be easy.”

 

“Nothing ever is,” I agree with a pained smile.

 

“Good. And you will, of course, say nothing to any of the Michaels family about the events of last night. The ulterior motives of the Company are not ours to expose or question, Aure. We are tools: we carry out orders.”

 

“Yes,” I promise, my voice hollow. After all the revelations this evening, I realise I had completely forgotten to grill Rigo with all the burning questions I’d had about our relation between the Michaels family and the Triads. How secondary all of that seems now. If Rigo is to be believed, this ‘Company’ encompasses and eclipses both of them. They could very well be playing them against one another, like pawns.

 

But the matter of my own future, of my place in all of that, is far more pressing now. It still feels somewhat surreal, as though I’ve lived all my life without having a full understanding of reality, and only now has the gossamer blindfold been lifted from my eyes. My footsteps feel oddly floaty when I leave the office. There is so much I haven’t seen. I fancied myself as such a little mastermind: a silent threat filled with the simple danger of Knowing Things. How wrong I was. I feel like a chastised child.

 

Later that night, before bed, I pull the white coat box out from under my bed. The photograph of me as a child is still there, still charred at the edges. Where my face once was, however, there is an empty circle where a hole has been punched out of the picture. I throw it across the room in disgust. I’ve been expunged. Very well. Let’s see what this ‘testing’ entails.


	21. Alfredo

Another six months pass.

 

I have grown proficient in a range of skills: firearm assembly and disassembly, shooting, self defense. Sparring with Rigo has become a regular component of my exercise routine; I have learned that it is as important to learn how to take a strike as it is to learn how to evade one. I have learned the weak spots of the human body, not only from the perspective of my medical studies, but also from the perspective of combat. If time and energy is managed correctly, there are strikes that can be very effective regardless of the disadvantages of my former malnutrition.  Even the scope of my first aid skills have broadened. 

 

I have grown in other ways, too. A few inches in height, for starters: it would seem that my high protein diet has coaxed my body into further progressing the course of puberty. The musculature of my torso is now more or less aligned to that of my legs. In the mornings, after I was my face with a witch hazel astringent, I must shave a fine stubble from my upper lip. On every other morning, I must shave my jaw, too. I do this because Rigo is clean shaven, and every other man I have seen in the Michaels family is clean-shaven, too, and I crave uniformity. Uniformity is useful: it does not attract the eye. My hair is short because it does not attract the eye. I dress smartly, but simply, because it does not attract the eye. All of this is a lubricant that allows me to pass through public spaces without scrutiny.

 

I have been in places as crowded as a busy shopping mall. The sheer amount of people, the way they teemed to and fro on either side of kiosks, with the instinctive navigational skills reminiscent of ants, was overstimulating. Yet I remained there, as instructed, attracting not at all much attention to myself. I order a coffee (black) and sit alone at a table in the food court. I purchase myself a new pair of dress shoes. I drift through department stores, discretely documenting shoppers I see on a notepad hidden up my sleeve. I follow certain people, upon instruction, until I can learn a piece of personal information about them through observation alone.

 

The purpose of these exercises, I think, is the hone skills the Company desires me to have. Needs, even. For what ends, I still have no idea, but it’s not so difficult to extrapolate on what kind of tasks they might require me to carry out. After all, I’m already very familiar with the sort of services required by the Michaels family. Surely, they are similar.

 

With repetition, the anxiety of being present amongst the public began to fade. By the sixth or seventh time, I think, the feeling had evolved to a simple feeling of strangeness. How strange it was to be someone like me, amongst all of these people who were so unlike myself. Before I left Matthias’ home, I could count the number of people I knew by name on two hands. By the time I had made several appearances at the Michaels clubhouse, that number was still less than three dozen. How many of these people could say the same? Most would have bested me, in this regard, by their first day of kindergarten, if not beforehand. Yet on the other hand, I have certainly bested them in the number of people I have killed. There may be one or two exceptions, of course, if the rumours about serial killers amongst the general population are to be believed, but the vast majority? Certainly.

 

By the ninth or tenth exercise, I could find a sort of humour in it. I even attempted small talk, on occasion. I complimented a woman on her blouse - sincerely, might I add, for it was white and unwrinkled - and she was none the wiser. How funny it is, for someone like me to present amongst all of these people, and none of them have the faintest notion that I am with the Company. Once I overcame the initial hurdle of my anxiety, my paranoia that people could inexplicably sniff me out, the practice of being an aberration hidden in plain sight came easily.

 

Other skills are much harder to develop, and the hurdles far more punishing.

 

I have come to loathe mealtimes.

 

Not all of them, of course; the routine where I prepare a small serving of our simple, high protein diets is most agreeable. However, as of late, there are occasions where I am not instructed to cook. On these days, Rigo will arrive with a paper bag printed with the emblem of a local restaurant. 

 

Tonight, the bag says ‘Russo’s’ in red ink. An American-Italian restaurant, I believe. I recall the sign from the vicinity of the Michaels clubhouse. Seated at the kitchen table, I interlock my fingers and watch as Rigo unpackages several containers from the bag and begins to serve their contents into bowls. Our silence allows me to hear the entire process in great details, and the wet _squelch_ of the serving spoon has me squirming in my seat. 

 

My worst suspicions are confirmed when he sets the bowl in front of me.

 

“What is this?” I ask, aghast.

 

“Fettucine alfredo,” Rigo informs me.

 

“It’s congealed.” I grimace, offended.

 

“It is not. It’s the chef’s special.”

 

Cream. The sauce is made from cream, I’m sure of it. Cream, garlic, and something that gives off a pungent scent of mould. “I can’t eat this,” I declare, looking up at Rigo with a stricken expression. “I’ll be sick.”

 

“You will eat it,” Rigo counters, unaffected by my display of emotion. “You are required to exhibit normal behaviour in a restaurant, and that includes eating.”

 

“Would I eat shellfish, just to save face?” I challenge him.

 

“Yes,” Rigo tells me sternly. “You have an epipen.”

 

It is an epinephrine autoinjector, a device about the size of a pen but three times as thick. It’s not pleasant to administer (I conducted two test trials with the aid of some oysters; one through clothing and one directly on skin) but it will treat anaphylaxis. When I leave the house, I keep two upon my person in the same way I keep a 9mm semi-automatic pistol, and the key on a chain around my neck.

 

I look back down to the bowl before me. Vomit. It looks like vomit. Truly, I curse the man who discovered early agriculture, who rendered cow’s milk down into cream. Disgusting. The first bite turns the corners of my mouth down and I struggle to swallow.

 

“That was awful.” The words come from Rigo’s lips, not mine. He frowns, pausing in twirling pasta onto his own fork. “To act like that in a restaurant would disturb the entire table. Try again.”

 

“I hate it,” I whisper, stalling for time as I twirl another noodle around my fork. 

 

“Then imagine that you don’t,” Rigo instructs me, taking his seat on the opposite side of the table. “Compartmentalise.”

 

I am familiar with the term, but it makes my nose wrinkle. “I don’t think I can,” I murmur, the fork hovering before my lips. “Not with this.”

 

“Then you must improve your acting,” Rigo tells me unsympathetically, picking up his own fork. “I won’t coddle you any more in this regard. Eat.”

 

Coddle. The word stings. I look down at the pasta with trepidation. I flinch as I imagine it in my stomach. Looking back to Rigo, I feel a helpless sort of jealous as he begins to eat without issue.

 

“How do you do it?” I ask him with a furrow in my brow. 

 

Rigo chews, swallows, and sighs, before he answers. “We were not raised using the same methods,” he says. “I have no aversion to dairy products.”

 

“Then what do you have an aversion to?” I ask, still searching for answers. “How do you do something you despise without reacting?” 

 

My questions feel like all I have, in this moment. All I need is one example: no matter how abstract, I’ll adapt the solution to help me tackle the eating. If Rigo can do it, I’m sure I can, too. 

 

He stares at me for a moment before setting down his fork and dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “I have to make a phone call,” he announces, getting up from the table. He pauses at the door.

 

“Aure,” he tells me over his shoulder. I freeze in my seat, feeling caught red-handed with my thoughts. “This is not an exercise in subterfuge.”

 

I would have returned half of the bowl to the original restaurant container, it’s true. I was already planning it the moment he set down his fork. Not the garbage; too obvious, and not all of it; too obvious, again. Half, back in the container from whence it came, hidden in plain sight. How does he always know what I am thinking?!

 

“If I return and find you have disposed of any portion of your meal without eating it,” Rigo carries on, “I will force feed you a double serving.”

 

I nod curtly, not even turning around to see if he is watching me. He leaves the room and my stomach turns, staring down at the pasta dish before me. I can imagine, most vividly, one hand pinching my nose shut and the other forcing the rotten stuff into my mouth, manipulating my jaw to masticate. The fear of the mental image spurs me to take up my fork, using the side of the instrument to scrape the creamy sauce off of a lone piece of pasta. It’s… less horrible, that way, but I can already foresee the dilemma I am creating for myself: less sauce on the fettucine I eat just leaves more of it in the bowl. My mind jumps to the conclusion of a bowl full of nothing but the stinking cream and my stomach heaves. Clapping a hand over my mouth to suppress the urge, I resign myself to my fate and return to twirling pasta normally.

 

I chew and swallow as fast as I can, scraping my tongue on the sides of my teeth. It helps to speed my progress with the meal but it does nothing for my composure: by the third bite, I am still shaking.

 

Rigo returns without speaking, casting a careful eye over my bowl as he resumes his seat. 

 

I nearly bite my tongue with the speed of my chewing, causing Rigo to scowl. “Slowly,” he tells me. “Bad manners attracts attention.”

 

The meals drags on. The chair feels particularly hard and unforgiving under my buttocks in a way that brings back uncomfortable memories. It feels as though my mouth is not my own; my stomach, host to some foul being. It is almost as though I can feel it moving inside me. When my fork clears the last piece of the pasta from the bowl, I cannot say how much time has passed. 

 

Rigo, having finished long before me, had sat back to watch me. “You have succeeded in swallowing the food,” he tells me dryly. “But nothing else.”

 

I close my eyes and shudder. I hear Rigo sigh and rise from his seat, moving to the kitchen counter. After a few moments, the crisp sound of a page being torn from a notepad.

 

“Here,” he says, and I open my eyes to receive the list and the hundred dollar bill he’s holding out for me. “Fetch the groceries.”

 

I’m almost grateful for the task, until I see an unusual addition at the end of the list. Cream. 

 

“Go,” Rigo tells me.

 

I go, feeling even worse than before. My mind runs wild with thoughts white, lichen-like mould filling up my stomach and growing up the insides of my throat.

 

Of course, I know that’s not the case. The meal is simply in my stomach. I am digesting it. The walls of my stomach, like any other, have a thick lining of mucus to protect itself from the gastric acid that aids the digestive process. Beyond that, the intestines. Here, problems may arise if my body doesn’t have enough enzyme lactase to break down the lactose in the dairy. There would be no actual damage to the digestive tract, of course, but the symptoms could range from simple flatulence to abdominal pain or outright diarrhoea. 

 

The nausea racks me regardless, but I am not lactose intolerant. Not physically.

 

Both I and the Company know this well; after all, they’ve been having me drink milk since I was a child, and I’ve hated it since I was a child. What is the root of their obsession, I wonder? There are other dietary sources of calcium. Is it the whiteness of it? Have they ascribed it some kind of purity, or is there another reason?

 

I could be a simple matter of control. The thought does cross my mind. You hate this thing, but it does not matter. You are property; your feelings are not your own. Drink. 

 

Eat.

 

I falter at the mouth of the alleyway on the way to the grocery store, and whether by the sway of nausea or some unseen gravity of rebellion, I veer into the passage. I could make myself vomit. The thought is loud and clear, almost calling to me; my eyes are already fixed on the patch of grubby bitumen beside the dumpster where I’d do it. A simple trigger of the gag reflex and this rotten stuff would no longer be inside me. Would Rigo be able to tell if I did it? He’s given me cash: I could buy a bottle of water afterwards and gargle it until the smell is no longer on my breath. I am not naïve enough to buy something uncharacteristic, like breath mints. 

 

The solution seems so perfect, but a feeling of inadequacy weighs me down. _Coddle_ , he’d said. The aversion to this food is a weakness. I’ve been told to digest the meal. Grimacing, I hunch forward and grip my knees, fighting the urge to retch. 

 

“Are you okay?” A voice asks.

 

I look up, startled. People aren’t typically able to sneak up on me, of course, but he must have  been standing near a stack of boxes since I entered the alley, so there was no approach to hear.

 

“You like you’re gonna cry.”

 

I recognise that smile, but I’m surprised. All things considered, I’m surprised that he’s still alive. 

 

“ _Cale_?” I ask, incredulous.

 

He giggles. I recall how weak he was in the head. Even when he extends his arm out to me now to offer me his grimy hand, I can see the discolouration in the crook of his elbows. Vein damage - heroin, most likely, if he hasn’t stooped to methamphetamine. His behaviour has always resembled an opioid user, not a stimulant. Heroin is too expensive for a homeless person to consistently afford, but Cale has always found a way to use his body as a form of currency, hasn’t he?

 

I don’t take his hand, straightening my spine on my own accord. “I’m fine,” I tell him curtly.

 

Cale’s hand drops listlessly back to his side. He doesn’t seem offended; I don’t think he’s capable of that. The fly of his denim shorts is spread wide open but the garment small enough to stay put on his bony hips. The shallow V exposes a grubby pair of what I assume are womens’ panties, because they are pink. His T-shirt is threadbare and missing the sleeves, and his feet are absolutely filthy - blackened at the soles and in the beds of his toenails. He wears just one shoe, and I’m sure that he found it in this alley. It’s too small for him: he’s crushed the back of it and shoved what he can in the front of it, like a slipper.

 

He watches me with big, shadowed eyes and a twitchy smile. “You got bigger,” he says, voice filled with wonder.

 

“It’s been years,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “What happened to you? How did you get here?”

 

“I… move around a lot,” he answers vaguely, reaching behind his back to grip the inside of his elbow. He shouldn’t have bothered: I’ve already seen the scars.

 

“Did Landon ever come back?” I wonder. I only ever saw the blood at the foot of the stairs, and Rigo never clarified what ‘taken care of’ meant. Did he make it as far as home, unable to see?

 

“Who?” Cale’s head lolls to one side.

 

“Landon,” I repeat with a frown, indignant. Cale was with him for months. Is his mind really that soft?!

 

“Oh yeah,” he says slowly, the memory dawning on his sleepy face. His lips make a brief tittering sound, but his eyes are empty. “He was mean. I… got hungry.”

 

My eyes narrow as my mind rapidly fills in the details in Cale’s stuporous reply. It’s unlikely that Landon ever returned home, then. If he had, I’m sure it would have been traumatic enough to make an impressive on even Cale’s sieve-like memory. It sounds as though he stuck around until the fridge was empty, and then he just… left, I suppose. Just walked away - no owner, no mentor, no preparation. As alien as his behaviour is to me, I must admit that it’s impressive that he’s been able to do this and survive.

 

“Hey, Aure…” Cale starts, and I tense.

 

_Why don’t you just…_

 

“Do you, uh, have any money?” He asks me, briefly rocking on the balls of his feet.

 

Oh. Evidently he is able to survive, but just barely. He doesn’t have enough money. My eyes conduct another brief sweep over his body, noting the way his skeleture shows so clearly underneath his ghostly skin. He reminds me of my childhood. He needs to eat, but the cash has been given to me in the usual form: a single, hundred dollar bill, and I am expected to return with the groceries. 

 

“Yes,” I answer, my head turning in the direction of the grocery store, “but I can’t give any to you yet. If you wait here, I’ll come back with money, and groceries.”

 

“I… have to go soon,” Cale hesitates, squeezing his elbow and glancing back, further into the alley.

 

“I’ll come back.” I turn and leave. It’s no use arguing with someone like Cale: he has a weak sense of reasoning. If he wants the money, he will wait. Besides, I am very efficient in the grocery store. Even with the additional items to collect, I will finish quickly. 

 

Chicken, liver, kidney beans, spinach, broccoli, cabbage, bananas, eggs. Milk. I make a detour to a part of the grocery store rarely trodden and pick out several packaged sandwiches for Cale. They have pre-prepared meals that seem a little more substantial, but I doubt a junkie has reliable access to an oven or a microwave, so sandwiches will have to do. I pick up a two litre bottle of water also, because Cale isn’t bright enough to think of these needs. 

 

I almost reach the checkout before my heart drops. The cream; I’d come so close to forgetting. Turning abruptly on my heel, I hurry back to the dairy section where I had fetched the milk from. Had I met Cale and then returned home without it, without any more money to go back and purchase it… I shudder as I imagine having to explain my actions. No; that is a situation best avoided. Cale might die anyway, but he will certainly be killed if his association with me becomes known to the Company.

 

I return to the checkout with the smallest pot of cream I could find added to my basket. By the time I make it back to the alleyway, Cale is nowhere ton be found.

 

I blame the cream, despite how childish that is. 

 

It is only then that I realise that the reunion has distracted me from the fettucine alfredo. The meal must be too far digested to weigh heavily on my stomach; the queasy feeling has subsided.

 

I cannot return home with the additional groceries. The sandwiches have cheese in them, and I certainly don’t want to eat them after the ordeal I’ve been through. In the end, I reason that he might return to the same location, not unlike a stray dog. I leave the sandwiches on top of some of the cardboard boxes stacked up against the brick wall, and pin the change from the hundred underneath the bottle of water. Hopefully Cale finds it later, but it is outside of my control. I cannot take any longer getting home - I’m sure Rigo will expect some delay after my display at dinner, but the scope of that reasoning has its limits. I walk home quickly.

 

Rigo comes to greet me when I enter through the front door. Most unusual, or perhaps not, given that the first thing he does is inspect the groceries to confirm that I bought the cream as instructed. He seems satisfied, despite the smallness of the pot, and he ushers me to the kitchen.

 

Waiting on the table are six items, all laid out in a neat line: a pair of safety glasses, a plastic tub, a pair of long, plastic tweezers, a glass beaker, my razor blade, and a small, plastic bottle labelled ‘nitric acid’.

 

“You will learn to do better,” Rigo tells me, taking the shopping bag out of my hands.

 

I place the smaller gifts inside the plastic tub and take the lot of it upstairs without a word. I while away the evening by pushing the slowly dissolving razor blade around the bottom of the beaker.


End file.
